


Things Said and Unsaid

by Liquid_Lyrium



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Canonical Character Death, Complicated Relationships, Cremation/Funeral Pyre, Depression, Dissociation, Flashbacks, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Horror, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Post-All That Remains, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-30 03:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3921235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liquid_Lyrium/pseuds/Liquid_Lyrium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are things once said that can never be unsaid. There are things that should be said that remain unspoken. Cannot be spoken. There are things that have been left unsaid for years and now are too late to say. Hawke wants to forget, but today of all days, he is not allowed.</p><p>Quinntus Hawke has lived through many terrible days, but his mother's funeral might be one of the worst.</p><p>[Entry for DABB of May 2015.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something Hateful on Our Minds

**Author's Note:**

> First off, I'd like to encourage you all to see the fanmix my partner for this challenge [ ItsaDrizzit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/pseuds/ItsADrizzit) made. It is beautiful and devastating and emotionally perfect for this story. The chapter titles come from track 12 _Alpha Rats Nest_ by the Mountain Goats. [Please give it a look and a listen because it really does a good job of capturing all the emotions of the story.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3963328)
> 
> Secondly, I'd like to thank [Stealyourshiny](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stealyourshiny) for helping me as a beta and sounding board!
> 
> So, full disclosure--this started out as a character study then it grew into something huge. Then I lost someone close to me and it became something necessary. It's not happy, not pretty, but I needed it. I needed Quinn to remind me of a lot of things, and he did. And I learned a lot about him, still, after all these years. So that was good. This isn't the end of his journey by any means, it's just the lowest point.
> 
> Second half is heavier/more intense than the first, in terms of triggery content.

**Things Said and Unsaid**

It was a warm day for spring, but a breeze off the Waking Sea helped cool the City of Chains, even if the smell from the docks it carried was less than refreshing. The black banners hanging from the windows of the old Amell estate gently billowed as the breeze moved through Hightown. The sable hangings swayed with the wind, but this did nothing to lessen their ominous and forbidding presence.  Each window on the upper floor had a long, heavy black curtain spilling from the bottom of each sill, covering the windows beneath--like tear tracks through kohl. The columns that held the Amell heraldry were covered from the very roof down to the ground. Framing the door on either side, the two standards were as forbidding as the bronze Twins that loomed over the harbor.

An elven messenger approached the house, laden with flowers and missives. When he knocked on the door, it was opened almost immediately by a dwarf. The braids in his hair  were slightly unkempt and looked to be a few days old. “Hello, yes, no Feddic, Bodahn. Visitors only, no deliveries?” The dwarf’s voice was naturally sharp, but he sounded a bit faraway, barely paying the courier any mind.  The dwarf glanced back over his shoulder, shifting from foot to foot in the doorway. It nearly looked like the man had taken up residence in the entryway; in fact, the messenger spied a cot and a neatly-folded blanket tucked into a corner.

“I’m... sorry? No deliveries?”

“Ach. Excuse me. Bodahn Feddic, at your service. No visitors, deliveries only,” he stressed the words carefully, a bit more present in the moment. “It is another delivery, yes?”

“Yes, for Serah Hawke.  The du Lacs, de Montfords, de Launcets, and the Cuttenridge family all send their condolences, um… again, I think.”

Hawke’s manservant sighed and took the armful of flower arrangements and the envelopes from the messenger, “Indeed they do. Thank you for delivering these Serah.”

“Um,” the messenger coughed delicately “They all emphatically wished to express to Serah Hawke how devastated they are that they cannot personally attend today’s proceedings, and would welcome the chance to pay their respects to Lady Amell in the future.”

Bodahn sighed even heavier than before, “Of course.” His voice sounded a bit strained, as though his patience was being tested, he glanced back over his shoulder again. The courier bowed courteously and made a hasty retreat.

Bodahn closed the door with a heavy thud, “Sandal!” He called out for his son. “Sandal, my boy, come help your old Bodahn with these flowers.” The young enchanter came away from the fireplace and into the entryway.

“So many flowers,” the young savant cooed, balancing the arrangements delicately in his large, spade-like hands. Even by dwarf standards, Sandal’s hands were exceptionally nimble and sure. Bodahn often found himself envious of his son’s talent with his hands. He might have pursued a craft instead of trading in a different life if he had even half of Sandal’s raw talent. “Enchantment?”

“No my boy,” Bodahn said softly. “Not these, not today, I don’t think Serah Hawke wishes to keep these flowers at all. Take these up to him, won’t you Sandal? Remember to knock. I’ll be up in a moment, all right?” He gently turned Sandal towards the stairs and gave his shoulder a gentle shove of encouragement. “Up the stairs, there’s a good lad.” Assured of his son’s activities for the moment, Bodahn put the letters onto a growing pile of missives on a tray. He placed the last arrangement onto the tray as well and searched the main floor for Orana.

He found the young woman pacing the kitchen, pulling together a tray for a small meal. “Is he ready?” Bodahn asked her gently, “Any luck at all?”

Orana shook her head, a worried frown pulling at her mouth. The young woman twisted her hands with such ferocity Bodahn marveled that she didn’t sprain her fingers with each pass, “I tried to get him to bathe, but he hasn’t moved. I…  I managed to give him some tea, but I don’t think he’s heard a thing I’ve said.” She squeezed her hands together hard. “I... I played some music for him, but I don’t think he liked it. Master Hawke hasn’t spoken one word to me all morning.”

Bodahn let out a huge breath, his wide shoulders slumping, “No indeed, he hasn’t spoken to any of us yet today. I had rather hoped… he might respond with you. I suppose I’ll have to try again. If that doesn’t work one of us may have to go get one of his friends. Ah me, this is a difficult day for poor Quinntus.”

“What happens if Master Hawke doesn’t go?”

“That won’t happen,” Bodahn said, though he didn’t sound completely confident in his words. “He’ll come around.” Hopefully sooner, rather than later.

“You should go up to see him,” Orana said quietly. “He’s worse than yesterday.”

Bodahn nodded. He hadn’t seen Hawke since bringing him a tray for breakfast earlier, in the wee-hours of the morning, before sunrise. Ever since that dreadful night of Leandra's death, Quinn had been keeping all sorts of odd hours--sleeping little, eating less. Bodahn feared for the man’s health. He’d hoped that after Serah Fenris’s visit the other night, Hawke might be prepared to face…. today.

The dwarf let out a breath through his nose, “Ancestors and Stone, if you still hear me, help us through this day, I beg you.” Bodahn then braced himself and gave Orana a reassuring squeeze to one elbow, “Don’t worry my dear. I’ll get him ready, even if I have to bathe and dress him myself.” He tried to give Orana a faint smile, but he wasn’t sure his mouth moved properly. “You look exhausted, my girl, why don’t you take a rest,” Bodahn gestured to one of the chairs at the prep table. “Have something for yourself, and maybe we can get Quinntus to eat after he’s had a bath.” The woman shifted in place, she had that look again. That trapped look of wanting to protest, but unable to give voice to her thoughts. “Please, Orana, it’s no use standing about and fretting. Take care of yourself for now, and let me worry about Messere Hawke for a little while,” he was gentle in tone with her, as always, but he found himself holding his breath.

The dwarf felt relieved when the woman went over to the table and took a seat at the table. Bodahn was feeling tired himself, and he was selfishly relieved that he didn’t need to manage Orana’s emotions too. Hawke was enough of a challenge for the moment. “Just listen for the door, in case more deliveries come. I suspect there shall be many more today,” he brought the tray to Orana and placed it in front of her. She was still too skinny, by Bodahn’s estimation, even allowing for the fact that she was an elf.  Orana pulled a mug of tea towards herself and offered Bodahn a tentative smile. He nodded and tried to smile back at her, but it was a tired, weak expression.

Bodahn returned to the grand parlor and placed his hands on the handles of the tray holding the flowers and the messages. He paused, as his vision suddenly blurred. He wiped away his tears as they appeared, and he blinked fiercely. “Come now Messere Feddic,” he chastised himself lightly. “Mistress Amell needs us to look after her boy, you can have a cry later.” He wiped his eyes again and picked up the tray, carefully climbing up the stairs. Bodahn nearly tripped over Ser Rascal, the hound was currently curled up outside Leandra’s door.  The hound didn’t seem to like being in Mistress Amell’s room without her present, but he was desperate to be close to Hawke. The dwarf wondered if the hound knew. He was only half-mabari, but he did seem smarter than most dogs. Most of the time.

Bodahn braced himself and entered Leandra’s bedroom. He wondered if this was what passing through the Veil felt like. The room had an eerie, tomb-like quality to it. Scarcely anything had changed from the night she left. Apart from the dust starting to settle on her journals and jewelry, it was almost as if Leandra might come home and settle in for the evening. As if she still lived here.

The last time he’d seen Quinntus, the man had been seated on the floor, at the foot of Leandra’s bed, not eating breakfast nor saying a word. Hawke barely moved from that spot most of the time, so Bodahn was surprised, when he saw Quinn sitting in front of the fireplace. His dark red hair was darker than usual and in need of a wash. Sandal was standing next to him, holding one of the floral arrangements while Quinn reached up with a heavy hand and threw blossoms, one by one into the flames. Bodahn cringed as he realized he’d forgotten to remove the lilies from this latest batch of flowers. He’d been so exhausted he hadn’t noticed them. He cleared his throat gently, “Sandal, why don’t you go see if Ser Rascal needs a snack, all right?”

The young boy frowned in consternation, “ _I’m helping_.” He wavered on the spot, though, he loved the hound dearly.

“It’s all right Sandal,” Quinntus said in a quiet, raspy voice. “Go see Ser Rascal,” he curled his fingers around another flower and threw it onto the flames. Sandal set the arrangement down on the floor and paused.

“Sorry,” Sandal said in a hushed voice. The young dwarf paused, offering his hand to Quinn, “Enchantment?”

Hawke seemed to stir at this. He lifted his head, which seemed to take great effort and looked up at Sandal. Hawke lifted a hand and squeezed Sandal’s, “Thank you for the offer, Sandal. Why don’t you take care of Ser Rascal? I bet he’d like a walk. That would help me.” Bodahn held his breath, the tiniest spark of hope flickering in his chest.

“Woof! Woof!” Sandal barked, clapping his hands. “I can do it!” Bodahn’s momentary hope faded as Sandal left the room, and Quinn’s expression became flat and despondent again.  The firelight danced across Hawke’s wan, ashen face, his bold tattoos just about the only hint of color to his complexion. Bodahn could see that Quinn’s hair was deeply tangled—something the man couldn’t abide under normal circumstances. Hawke was always so particular and fastidious with his appearance. He was still wearing the same outfit that he’d worn when Serah Fenris came to visit the other night. Bodahn set the tray down on the end of the bed.

“More flowers and sympathies for you, Messere,” the dwarf approached the fireplace. “I’ve left the letters just there on the end of the bed. Allow me to take this for you Messere,” he bent down to pick up the offending flowers, but Quinn’s hand darted out to grip the vase. To his credit, Bodahn managed not to jump with surprise. He relented, and gently set it back down beside Hawke, “Or not, as you like, Messere.” Hawke said nothing, and instead threw another lily onto the fire.

“Would you like me to draw you a bath, Messere?” No response. Bodahn felt a bit uncomfortable filling the silence by himself. He was used to carrying on real conversations with Quinntus, not holding up both ends of it himself. He kept waiting for Hawke to chastise him and tell him not to be so formal. This… silence was unnerving and difficult to work with.

Of course, Bodahn didn’t expect Quinn to be at his best, but it was impossible to tell, at times, if the man even heard him. Bodahn suspected that Hawke often didn’t. Bodahn took in the man’s appearance again. Quinn’s eyebrows were… feathered at the edges, when he usually kept them thin and impeccably groomed. The man’s facial hair was starting to resemble a full beard, after several days without shaving at all. The marks on Hawke’s chin were almost completely invisible under the unchecked growth of hair. Bodahn ran a hand along his own less than stellarly-kempt beard. “I assume you’ll be wanting a shave before you go out today, yes Messere?” There was only the sound of a searing pop as another flower died on the flames. Bodahn stroked his beard again, wondering how best to proceed. Maybe there wasn't a 'best way' to proceed. “I know you don’t want to think of it, Messere, but, there’s nothing more to be done. Your mother—your mother’s… services are today.” Bodahn had to stop as his eyes welled with tears again and he started to choke on his own words. He wiped away a tear hurriedly, “We must all be presentable, yes? Of course we must.” Quinntus threw the last lily into the fireplace, and Bodahn felt his heart sink a little lower. “Come now, Messere Hawke, I know it’s a grim business, but you won’t be alone. Your uncle will be there, I’ll be there, Orana and my boy will be there if you wish it, your friends will be there. Serah Fenris will be there,” he added the last bit, rather desperately.  Fenris had been the only reason Quinn had bathed or groomed at all since his mother’s death—the sole reason he’d left Mistress Amell's _room_ since that night. Still, the elf was a delicate topic on the best of days.

Bodahn wasn’t entirely clear on the details but the two men had hit some sort of obstacle, despite the clear and deep affection of both parties. The manservant—dwarfservant as Quinn often teased him—hoped that whatever it was, that it passed quickly. All Bodahn wished was for the two to reconcile soon, though that seemed less and less likely as the weeks stretched on. Hawke stirred slightly at the mention of the elf’s name, but he didn’t speak. “I’ll just draw up a bath for you, Messere,” Bodahn finally concluded, after several minutes of silence. If he had to physically put Quinn in the tub, so be it.

\--

The door shut behind Bodahn like the seal to a Nevarran tomb.

It may as well have been one.

Quinn felt like her room was haunted by her specter as assuredly as he was still haunted by her corpse.

Hawke squeezed his fists until his knuckles hurt. _No. Don’t think of it, don’t think of anything at all_ , but even as he set his jaw, he could feel tears well in his eyes. He could smell molten metal and the acrid, burning fuel of the Foundry District, he could feel the soot and oil coating his skin.  He could smell the scent of the sewers beneath the foundry –the waste of industry and human waste meeting to create an unholy stench most foul. He could smell rotted flesh, lye, and death. Hot bile burned its way up his throat as he tried to forget the scent of lilies and blood.

Quinn covered his mouth and nose, and shuddered. He tried to suppress the memory, but he could still feel his mother in his arms—not fully his mother, but several women pieced into something obscene _. No. It’s under the foundry. Bury it all under the foundry._

Hawke recoiled as a stolen hand covered in sutures touched his shoulder. His heart raced and threatened to jump out of his throat, and his lungs were bloated with an unvoiced scream. He gripped his chest when he realized it was only Bodahn. Maker’s breath, for a moment he’d thought… he’d thought..  Hawke swallowed and tried to compose himself.

Bodahn pulled his hand away guiltily—large and heavy, not bony and frail. Full of life, not dead and cold. “I apologize Messere, I didn’t mean to startle you. Your bath awaits.”

Hawke let out a slow breath, squeezing that unborn cry into the Void itself. “Yes… of course Bodahn. I just… I must have nodded off, I’ve been so tired but unable to sleep,” it wasn’t a complete lie. Maybe he _had_ drifted off for a nonce. Perhaps that hand had been a trick of the Fade or sheer exhaustion. Hawke chewed at his lip, agitated. His heart still thundered like a galloping gurn caged within his ribs. Slowly, he got to his feet, and his joints popped and crackled louder than the fire.

Bodahn clucked his tongue, “Ah, see, a nice warm bath will take care of those stiff joints Messere.”

Quinn nodded mutely in agreement. He felt a little unsteady on his feet, and rested a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder for a moment. He expected the dizziness to pass, but a lingering sort of fog remained that made it difficult to concentrate on walking.

“Perhaps a light meal will help you as well?” Bodahn sounded anxious.  

Quinntus furrowed his brow, trying to remember through that fog, “When was the last time I ate?”

“To be truthful, I don’t rightfully know, Messere, perhaps yesterday?” Bodahn twisted a thumb, staring at Hawke anxiously. “Let’s get you into the tub and I’ll go fetch a tray of tea and something to eat, yes? You’ll… be needing your strength today, I imagine.”

Quinn nodded again. His eyes burned and blurred with sudden wetness, but his tears still didn’t fall. With Bodahn’s aid, Quinn made his way out of his mother’s room.  The trek across the hall seemed to take an entire Age to Quinntus. He stared at the floor the entire time, not daring to look up at his mother’s portrait hanging on the wall. He looked up once they entered his room. The tub was there, waiting for him, full of water and warmed with a quartet of enchanted stones. Slowly, Quinn started to disrobe—without Bodahn’s help. After a moment, the dwarf left the room, satisfied that Hawke didn’t need his assistance with _every_ step of getting cleaned up.

Once he was naked, Quinn sank into the bathtub.

The water came up to his chest, leaving the tips of his knees exposed as he nestled into the metal tub. Hawke stared at the water blankly without moving, as though expecting the water to jump up and wash him.

_Still not a mage, I suppose_ , he thought after a moment. As if moving through pitch, he reached over to grab his soap, nails digging into the bar. It resembled a fancy cheese, marbled with flowers and tiny seeds. It was a new bar, one he had bought on a whim. Even though the novelty of having money had lessened, there were still things Quinn found he enjoyed about having wealth. Not the least of which included fancy soaps and shampoos. He still recalled the first time he’d realized he could afford the fancy soaps purveyed in Hightown. He’d brought home armfuls of every scent and fragrance imaginable, awed by this hidden world of soap beyond tallow and lye. Hawke could still remember his mother’s reaction.

_“Quinntus, what—did you really buy all of these?” Leandra’s voice was so shallow, hollow and faraway. She plucked one of the soaps up in her hands—another woman’s hands, and turned it over in her palm. Her mouth was pulled into a rictus, the stitches at the corner of her mouth nearly straining. Leandra’s head snapped back, and looked up at her eldest, with someone else’s eyes sitting in her skull. “Where in Andraste’s name are we going to keep all these?” That reedy voice was almost fond, almost amused. She reached up with the hand that was not hers and cupped his cheek, “I didn’t realize asking for a few sundries meant my son would return poised to become a soap merchant.”_

Hawke was standing in the tub, naked and shivering, drops falling from his outstretched arm. The bar of soap had landed in the empty fireplace. It was unlit, so the offending item was left to sit in the ashes, instead of burning in the flames. Quinn sank back down into the tub, biting his lip hard. He splashed water on his face, his stomach churning over itself. He trembled all over, and his shaking sent ripples from his knees, despite the warm water in his bath.

Hawke drew his arms around himself, and tried to wash away the sudden chill across his skin. He slapped a bit of water against his chest, grooming the thin red hairs back in place after. Quinntus didn’t know how he was going to get through this day. Whenever he thought of his mother—no matter how hard he tried, or inconsequential the memory—all he could see was the _thing_ she’d become, what Quentin had _made_ her into.

Quinntus hadn’t told anyone.

He pressed his tattooed brow against his knuckles. He couldn’t even look at her portrait without seeing… _that_. Quinn rubbed his thumbs along the bridge of his aquiline nose, following the curve there. _Maker, I’m so tired. Did I sleep at all last night?_ Time held frighteningly little meaning to Hawke these days. One moment he would be sitting, feeling achingly empty and awful, seconds ticking by like hours. Then at other times he would come out of his stupor with an awareness that hours had passed with no memory of them at all. It was like going back and forth between sinking in tar and stumbling out of a fog.

Quinn wondered how long he’d been sitting in the bath. He tipped his head back and dunked his head into the water. Blindly, he reached for a bottle of his shampoo and scrubbed his hair clean, until it was soft and the color of a rich red wine again. _Arcem Amoris_ , Fenris said once while drunk at the Hanged Man, _that is the wine your hair reminds me of_. It was a rare vintage even in Tevinter. A single slave produced a single bottle but once a year. Fenris had only seen it once, but if he was to be believed it ‘glittered like liquid rubies and garnets.’

Hawke doused his head in the tub and squeezed the moisture from his hair. Normally, Quinn washed it thrice, with a different soap each time, but his arms seemed to lack the strength. Once would have to do.  He just hoped his hair was clean. He hadn’t washed it for days—and not terribly well the last time he did.

Quinn braced his hands on the edge of the tub and stood up, water tracking down his body once again. He stepped out of the metal tub cautiously and wrapped himself in a towel, sitting on the edge of his bed. He ran a bit of the cloth along his jaw and pulled a face. He could feel hair poking him along his face and neck. Hawke ran a hand along his facial hair and frowned. Generally he only kept a bit of stubble around his mouth and chin. This was approaching a full beard—or at least nearing one. He stroked his thumbnail through the places the hair was thickest, wondering at the strange feel of it. Hawke dried himself off and walked over to his dresser, towel around his shoulders, his hair still dripping. He pulled down a set of smalls and black silk trousers. He stared down at his hands for several long moments. _Right, smalls first_. Hawke shook his head. It felt so hard to remember the simplest things. He ended up dropping his trousers to get into his smalls, and he cursed himself as he stepped on the black silk.

Once he had his trousers in place, Quinn slipped over to his looking glass, but as he slid into the chair, he cried out, pushing himself back from the dressing table violently.

Quinn shook his head, but the reflection remained the same. A pair of ghosts were staring back at him through his face, becoming something utterly monstrous. Hawke could see both his mother and his father staring back at him, till Malcolm resembled the _thing_ Leandra had become. Quinn touched his jaw with one hand and reached blindly towards the table with his other hand. His hand circled around the handle of his razor and he brought it up to his face, starting at the corner of his jaw, unable to tear his eyes away from the horrific image in the mirror. Quinn hewed the razor’s edge along his jaw, as fast as he dared, hair falling away with each short, frenzied stroke. His gaze kept drifting away from his beard and to the eyes in the mirror which were no longer green, but cold and grey and fish-like. He scraped the blade along his chin, fingers shaking as bad as they had in Ferelden winters. Hawke continued to hack away at his almost-beard, seeing less of his father as he uncovered his jaw again.

He hissed out a curse as he felt the blade catch on his skin. The razor dropped from his grasp as blood welled along a thin line, crossing through the lines and sharp angles of brown ink on his chin. It didn’t hurt but there was so much blood it was starting to drip down his neck. He pressed his fingers against the cut and cursed again, louder, “ _Fuck_!”

Hawke stood up and staggered back from the dressing table, pacing his room once before sitting on the edge of his bed. His chin started to burn, along the cut. Quinn checked his fingers, but there was still fresh blood, he was still bleeding—and he started to cry.

They were mostly tears of frustration, but his shoulders heaved with the tiniest sobs. “Fuck and bugger it all,” he cursed himself out loud. _You’re so fucking helpless, Hawke, so fucking useless._ Quinn rubbed his bloody fingers on the bedsheets and curled in over himself, crying and bleeding, still half-dressed. He sobbed again and tangled his fingers in his hair.

Hawke wasn’t sure how long he sat like that, but he looked up sheepishly as Bodahn entered the room, trying to blink away his tears. All at once Hawke felt incredibly ashamed of his appearance, covered as he was in blood and tears. The dwarf made a soft noise like a gasp, and then clucked his tongue softly. Bodahn came over, and pulled a kerchief out of his pocket, which he used to dab at Quinntus’s chin, holding pressure over the small cut. After a few moments, once the bleeding had slowed, Bodahn wet the cloth and used it to gently wash away the blood on Quinn’s neck and chin, dabbing at his collarbone where an errant drop had gone astray.

His wound tended to, the dwarf went over to the dressing table and brought over a small hand-dish of water, a brush, a bar of soap, and Quinn’s razor. Without a word, Bodahn wet the bristles and started to apply lather to Hawke’s skin—including places Quinn had missed in his haste. Bodahn finished Quinn’s haphazard attempt at shaving, taking care around the fresh cut on the man’s chin. He even used the razor to sculpt the man’s eyebrows the way he liked to—or did his best at least. Quinn wanted to thank the man, but his throat seemed to be stuck, as if it had been glued shut. Bodahn gave him an encouraging smile, “There you are Serah. You look like yourself again.” He gestured towards the dressing table and the looking glass.

Silk crumpled under Hawke’s fingers as he clutched the edge of the bed. He felt like he was trying to swallow a stone, “I’ll… take your word for it.” The corner of his mouth quivered uncomfortably as he attempted to smile. Hawke stopped trying to force the expression. Bodahn studied him for a moment, but then he gathered up the shaving materials and carried them back over to their proper place at the dressing table. “I.. what time is it?” Hawke's voice was still a bit rough as he asked the question.

“Oh sometime between the ninth and tenth bells,” Bodahn carefully folded his bloodied kerchief, tucking it into a pouch. Then he went to scoop up Hawke’s discarded clothes from earlier, “I’ll just take these downstairs and come back up with that tea tray, yes? Was there anything else you needed Messere?”

_I need my mother. I need to wake up. I need all of this to be a dream_. Quinn bit his lip, but he shook his head, “No, nothing… thank you Bodahn.” He looked down at his bare chest, where some of his hair had started to stand on end. “I suppose I should throw on a shirt,” he observed.

“I imagine you’ll be more comfortable that way,” Bodahn said. “Oh, did you need any hair ties? I know they tend to go missing,” the dwarf fussed a little, looking around the room.

Quinn shook his head, “I have some. It’s fine.”

Bodahn nodded, “Ah, that’s… that’s good then. I… I could braid your hair if you like, Messere?” He looked at Quinn with worry and compassion in those clear, gray eyes.

Quinn’s eyes burned as his vision blurred. He nodded, completely overcome with emotion. When he spoke, his voice was thin and close to breaking, “That… that would be lovely, Bodahn.”

Bodahn seemed to relax a little and he smiled at Quinn, “I’ll be back up in a moment, then. Oh, did you want any beads or ornaments woven in?

Quinn shook his head, “No beads. I… have some feathers, maybe just one of those in my hair? The others are going into my sleeves.” In the spaces where he usually kept a set of spare knives.

Bodahn nodded, “Anything else you need to prepare?”

Quinn swallowed, his heart racing again as he felt even more self-conscious. “I.. I’ll need some charcoal for my eyes later.” It was a silly superstition, and it felt a thousand times more foolish here in Kirkwall than it had in Ferelden. Even in Lothering, only his father followed this tradition. Malcolm Hawke had explained it once, when Quinn was about seven or eight summers old.

_“The feather is to help usher the deceased’s soul on to the next world, to prevent it from lingering here with loved ones and friends. The charcoal is to protect from spirits who might be attracted by a soul passing through to the next world—or I suppose I should say across the Veil and into the Fade.”_

_“But… you’re a mage,”_

_Malcolm Hawke chuckled, “I am indeed, but sometimes there’s greater comfort in small traditions than the greatest magic, my son. Now, I won’t be gone a long time. You’re in charge while I'm gone. Help your mother watch over the twins, all right?”_

When it was his turn to lay their father to rest, Quinn had put feathers in the twin’s hair, and drew a stripe of black across their eyes. Even if he didn’t fully understand it—it had been important to their father.

Hawke wondered, suddenly, if he was going to seem… blasphemous. He didn’t know why his father did small things like that, but there were other tiny and harmless superstitions that Malcolm Hawke had. Quinn suddenly found himself wondering, years later, what it all meant, what did these little things add up to? Were they just inventions of his father’s or were they things that had been taught to him in the Circle? He highly doubted it was the latter, but Malcolm had an aversion of talking about certain things. Malcolm rarely talked about his parents or his life growing up, and even less about the Circle—other than the magic he taught to Bethany. He'd always been so evasive. _This family and this life is enough. When the twins are old enough, perhaps I'll tell some of those stories._ Quinntus felt a brief stab of fury, angry that his father had died and taken such answers with him. And why hadn’t he thought to ask his mother? Hawke blinked fiercely as his eyes welled with tears.

He pushed the tears back. He pushed the memories back. He could get through this day if he just ground all his feelings to dust and was completely empty. If he stopped thinking.

Hawke jumped slightly as Bodahn offered him his hairbrush. Quinn took it slowly, staring at it as though it was a foreign artifact from Par Vollen.

“I’ll be right back,” Bodahn assured him.

Quinntus nodded, and he ran his thumb over the carved handle of his hairbrush.

He followed the swirls there with his thumb absently, still emptying his mind. It was a soothing exercise, focusing on the feel of the wood beneath his skin. Thinking led to so many painful emotions, this was simpler. And yet, even sitting and not thinking of anything in particular, his eyes still threatened to spill over with tears. Why? He wasn’t thinking on anything at all. He swallowed thickly and turned the brush over in his hands, pulling at the teeth trying to banish his sudden tears.

Quinn scarcely looked up when Bodahn returned, setting a tray down on the bed next to him.

“Sorry about that, there was another messenger at the door, I hope you didn’t think I was keeping you waiting,” Bodahn poured a mug of tea and passed it to Quinn. Hawke took the cup and stared down at the steaming liquid.

“I… was lost in thought, it’s all right. I didn’t notice,” a truthful statement. “Oh… my hair, it isn’t brushed.” It wasn’t dry yet either, and he still hadn’t put on a shirt.

“That’s all right Messere, I can manage,” Bodahn smiled at him with affection. The man gently took the brush from Quinn’s hands and started to pull it through the man’s dark red hair. He was gentle and patient in his movements, and Quinn hardly felt any discomfort while Bodahn worked the tangles out. “I do admit… Sometimes I wish Sandal had hair as long as yours, or a beard I could braid, but with his enchanting, it’s probably best he keeps his hair as it is. I don’t know where he keeps finding those salamanders…” He gently turned Quinn so that he was facing the other way, towards the center of the bed, so he could get at the back of his hair.

It had been a long time since anyone had done Quinn’s hair like this. Bethany might have been the last, and Quinn took a sip of too-hot tea as he nearly started crying again. Maker, his heart _hurt_ so much. How could merely existing hurt so much?

Bodahn combed out his thick hair, and squeezed the ends of it into the towel when he was satisfied the tangles were gone. Then Bodahn pulled Hawke’s hair through the towel again, a heated enchantment stone on the other side of the cloth, in order to dry out some of the moisture. When Quinn’s hair was no longer dripping wet, the dwarf combed through it once more, so that it sat smooth and parted on the right side of his head. “You know,” the shorter man cleared his throat delicately “we dwarves have a saying. ‘Well-woven hair is a sign of care.’”

Quinn felt his heart lurch in his chest, “Bodahn…”

“I worry for you Messere,” the dwarf lowered his voice into a whisper as he parted Quinn’s hair diagonally along his skull. “You know that, I hope. Mistress Amell… she and I would both fret over your little… adventures.”

Quinn felt a hot tear roll down his cheek. It suddenly occurred to him that since dwarves were cut off from the Fade, that likely meant they didn’t pass the Veil after death. If what the Chantry said about death was true, it suddenly seemed like a poor and unacceptable afterlife, if it meant being separated from Bodahn and Sandal and Varric for eternity. Another tear spilled down his cheek as Bodahn started braiding his hair. It felt like an Orlesian braid, but Quinn couldn't be sure by feel alone.

“What… do dwarves do when someone dies?” Quinn asked the words hoarsely. “What do your people say about death?”

Bodahn had Quinn hold onto a small hunk of hair, “We return to the Stone when we die.” He had Quinn hold another piece of hair, braiding along the man’s skull, threading the braid carefully. “Well, in Orzammar, they’d tell you surface dwarves become rock wraiths or other ghastly things, but I like to think the Stone recognizes her children, no matter how far they might roam. After all, there is always stone beneath one’s feet,” Bodahn sounded touched that Quinn had even asked. “I’d… appreciate it if you didn’t mention that to anyone in the Merchant’s Guild. They’re mostly Kalnas, and they’re a bit more… traditional in their views. Or else they don’t believe at all.”

Quinn held another bit of hair as Bodahn moved further back along his hair, “You mean.. they believe they are doomed to that awful fate?”

Bodahn sniffed primly, “Not at all. They simply believe that their way of doing things is the only way to secure the favor of the Stone and the Ancestors.”

“Ah,” Quinn wrapped the next piece of his hair around his thumb. “What.. what are,” his voice failed him. “What are… dwarf services like?”

Bodahn had Quinn release the hair he’d set aside, and hold new ones as he moved across the back of Hawke’s skull with his sure, steady fingers. “Well, in Orzammar, usually we entomb them, in cairns or vast vaults. The Nevarrans do something similar I believe. Anyway, once they've been entombed they can join the Ancestors and strengthen the Stone. I imagine it’s similar to one of your folk returning to the Maker’s side.”

Quinn felt a sudden lurch in his stomach. Could his mother really return to the Maker’s side, after what was done to her? His hand trembled as he put tension on his hair. What if she did return to the Maker’s side, would she.. be sent to the Fade looking like that? Would her… soul… _her essence_ … Had it been damaged by Quentin somehow?

“Messere?” Bodahn was finishing up the braid, securing it in place.

“It… it’s nothing,” Quinn managed to say, though it came out sounding like a rather pained gasp.

Bodahn pursed his lips as he started another braid beneath the first—weaving in the damp hair threaded through the first braid, “Maybe another subject, then?”

Quinn swallowed and nodded fractionally, “Yes.” His voice was soft and hollow, even though he felt a scream clawing at his throat. Hawke swallowed it down and he could breathe again.

“There’s another saying we have about hair, you know,” Bodahn tried to keep his tone light. “Well-ordered hair means a well-ordered day.”

Quinn snorted faintly. “Well, I wish it was true for humans.”

Bodahn chuckled nervously, “Ah, well, yes trouble _does_ seem to follow you around, despite your good grooming.”

Quinn shrugged, “Don’t feel bad. It always has. I just hope… not today.” He gulped thickly, hanging onto his hair again.

Bodahn braided along his head, his fingers so sure and nimble, despite their size and age, “I’m sure everyone will be on their best behavior today.”

A humorless smile lifted the corner of Quinn’s mouth, “I think it’s been said that weddings and funerals bring out the worst in people.”

Bodahn gasped, “Messere! What a thing to say.” The dwarf was a bit flustered, but his hands remained steady.

“Sorry,” Quinn wet his lips, a lead weight settling into his stomach now that he’d said the word aloud. ‘Funeral.’ Such a curious magic. Up until now, it hadn’t felt real. His eyes were burning, and he could taste salt at the corner of his mouth. Quinn touched his cheek _. Why am I crying when I feel as empty as the Void itself?_ It was as if admitting the reality of today made him _feel_ less, even as the gravity became solid. He didn’t know what to make of the strange duality of it.

“Now you didn’t mean that, Messere. Everything will go fine today, you’ll see,” but Quinn _had_ meant it, inappropriate as it had been to say. He looked down at the floor, deciding not to argue the point.

Bodahn just managed to make a third braid beneath the first two, and he wove Quinn’s black feather into it, tucking it in along the base of his skull. Then the dwarf finished off the braid, weaving the three braids together into one, over Hawke’s shoulder.  Bodahn’s hands lingered on Quinn’s shoulders for a moment, and Hawke felt so _young_ and _small_ , despite being twice as tall as the older man.

“Would you like to see, Messere?” Quinn held his breath, his heart pounding in his ears, but he nodded. If… if he just looked at his hair. At the back of his head… that would be safe enough. Hawke shifted off the bed and approached his dressing table. He sat with his back towards the mirror. A chill ran up his spine as Bodahn passed him a mirror. He lifted the hand-held glass and gasped. The back of his head was like a masterfully woven net, a trio of Orlesian-style braids weaving down into each other. It was stunning enough Quinn hadn’t realized there was no longer a terrible specter in the glass. His hands shook with relief as he lowered the mirror—it nearly slipped out of his fingers.

Hawke’s voice was thick with emotion as he spoke again, “Thank you Bodahn it’s… beautiful.” He attempted to swallow but between his relief and how deeply he was touched by Bodahn’s gesture, he almost choked.

Bodahn smiled at him, full of all the fondness when the man smiled at Sandal.

Quinn looked down at himself. _Still shirtless_. He felt naked beyond exposing his chest—as if Bodahn could see into his heart and head. It was an unwelcome, uncomfortable feeling that pushed aside the affection and tenderness he felt towards the man. Maker, what would Bodahn and Orana say if they knew what he’d seen in the mirror? In his mother’s portrait? Hawke swallowed and wet his dry lips, “I suppose I had better finish dressing.” He smiled that humorless smile once again, though he had to fight the very real urge to laugh, “I’ve heard there’s a strict dress code.” He felt bad, for the flash of shock and hurt in Bodahn’s eyes.

Quinn stood up and opened his wardrobe, with all the confidence he had never felt in his life, as though this were an ordinary day. He pulled down the rest of his mourning outfit, slipping into the black silk with remarkable ease, considering he’d needed help to finish shaving.

Quinn wrapped an Amell-red sash around his waist, and he turned to face Bodahn. An easy, false smile rested on his face, though his lips trembled from the effort. He could see the confusion on Bodahn’s face. He wasn’t certain where this bravado had come from either, but he hoped it lasted long enough to get him through this.

He hoped it was enough that people wouldn’t ask him what was wrong with him.

Quinn tried making his smile a bit bigger, and his lips stopped shaking, “I think I’m ready for that charcoal, what do you think, Bodahn? A bit of kohl to finish the look. It’ll add to the mystique.” He turned away from Bodahn, digging in his wardrobe again, pulling out a pair of fancy leather vambraces. They were detailed with fine stitching and embossed with subtle, swirling patterns.  He felt a bit naked, slipping them on without sliding any daggers or knives underneath. He slipped the feathers underneath them where he usually strapped his throwing knives.

Bodahn stepped forward and helped Quinn lace them in place, still looking at Hawke as if he didn’t quite trust the man. Quinn could almost hear the gears turning in Bodahn’s head. _‘Is he mad or simply bereaved?’ I know. I don’t know either, Bodahn_. Not that it was.. strictly unusual for Quinn to make jests or jibes—sometimes inappropriate ones, even, but.. rarely were they so ill timed. The dwarf gave Quinntus a rather penetrating stare, but he nodded his head after a moment, “I’ll go get that for you Messere… please try to eat something before I return.”

Quinn nodded, and he walked over to the bed. He lifted a sweet roll to his lips, but it tasted like the soapy ashes in his fireplace. He forced himself to eat it anyway. He tried one of the strawberries on the tray instead but it tasted like bitter clay. He tossed the stem of it into the fireplace as well, to rest beside the bar of soap. Hawke poured himself a little more tea and took another roll. Even if it tasted like sawdust, it was still food, and he could feel his stomach rumble—hopefully in approval.

Quinn sat on the edge of his bed with a sigh. He felt terrible, being so… helpless. He was more used to being the reliable one, taking charge while his family mourned around him. Now that he was alone… he found himself lost and unsure of what to do. There was no one to be strong for, no one to feed, no one to comfort but himself, and Quinn was increasingly aware that he had no idea how to do any of that for himself.

Hawke tried to swallow down his anxiety and wondered what Carver was doing.

They had only received word that he had survived the Joining, but after that… nothing. Despite the regular correspondence Quinn sent his brother. It had complicated things with their mother.

Leandra had been half-convinced Carver had died in service to the Wardens on account of that silence. When she was at her lowest, Quinn held her as she wept and expressed doubt that her youngest son had survived the Joining at all. Sometimes she had been more optimistic, but it didn’t matter. Carver had been as good as dead these past three years.

A letter had arrived the night she died. Short, irritated, and slightly nasty: _‘Been busy with Warden stuff. Keep meaning to write, but some of us don’t have time to write novellas like you, brother, lounging about in Hightown and faffing about with nobles. Some of us have to go into the Deep Roads for months on end. Thanks for that, by the way. I’m fine, stop asking if I’ve died—you tried your best on the expedition but it didn’t work. I’m not going to fall to some bloody darkspawn, even if they are smarter than you. Give mother my love._

_—Carver_

_PS. Tell her I’m sorry. I’m mad at you, but I don’t want her to worry, I guess._

_PPS. I’ve got a chance to be someone here, even if there is a lot of awful and horrific stuff we have to do and the Blight’s already been stopped._

_PPPS. Say hello to Gamlen for me too._

_PPPPS. Stop worrying about me! I mean it.’_

Quinn hadn’t sent a letter in return, for once.

He couldn’t.

Quinn’s fingers shook at the thought of even _trying_ to write such a letter. Maker’s teeth, he needed a drink. He set his mug of tea to one side before he spilled it with his unsteady hands. _Gamlen said he’d tell Carver_. Quinn’s heart raced a bit. Did his brother know yet? Who was going to look after his brother while he mourned? Quinn bit down on one of his knuckles. _What if he sees mother in the Fade?_ Would Carver be haunted by the same visage as Quinn?

Hawke curled in on himself, and he felt like he was trying to swallow his heart. He could feel his eyes shaking uncontrollably. _I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this by myself._ He was rocking back and forth, pulling his lower lip hard enough with his teeth that the cut on his chin twinged with pain. Quinn leapt to his feet _. Just calm down. It can be done after today. It can be over. Just get through today_. He paced the room, his face drawn tight. He breathed deeply through his nose. _Just a few more hours then you can bury it for good, Quinn. Just a few more hours._ He pressed his hands against his face and tried to tell his racing heart to slow.

“Messere?” Bodahn’s voice was soft. Quinn dropped his hands to his side.

“Nothing, just… tired,” Quinn tried smiling at Bodahn and it felt a little easier to fake.

Bodahn nodded, “You might be able to nap, if you wish Serah.” Quinn walked over and took the jar of powdered charcoal from the dwarf.

“Perhaps I’ll rest my eyes once I’ve made them up,” he fluttered his lashes outrageously. Bodahn didn’t smile at all. Quinn looked down at the floor, adopting the tone of a child who expected a scolding, “What is it, Bodahn?” He didn’t like the look the man kept giving him.

“Forgive me Messere I’m just.. surprised to see you… closer to your usual self is all,” Bodahn didn’t sound particularly happy about this development. That look of pity and disappointment sent a hollow thrill of fear through Quinn’s chest.

“I’m fine,” though he was belied by the way his voice wavered and his hands shook. “I can get through today, Bodahn.”

The dwarf inclined his head, “As you say, Messere.”

“I’m perfectly normal,” he stressed again keeping his voice modulated. Quinn coated his thumb in black powder and drew a bold stripe across his whole face. From the outer corner of one eye, over the little dip in bridge of his nose, and across his other eyelid. The stripe ended in the space where his tattoos came around to cup his eyes and cheekbones. He traced over it a few times to even out the application. He blinked several times to get some of the powder off his eyelashes. He closed the lid and passed it back to Bodahn. “Let me know if I need to reapply before we leave.” He brushed his thumb off against his pants, though the powder was barely visible against the black fabric. He had to resist the urge to rub his eyes. His traitorous lashes itched, but he would just have to suffer the discomfort. The last thing Quinn did was slide into a pair of comfortable boots and—after several long moments of consideration—he slid a dagger into each one. It helped him feel less exposed, though his back felt strangely empty without a pair of blades resting there.

Hawke was as ready as he was going to be for this day.

Now he just needed something to do.

For nearly an hour.

“I’m going down to the study,” he announced. There was always correspondence to attend to. He paused at the doorway. “Let me know when it’s time to leave,” there was a risk he might nod off at his desk.

Quinn made his way down the stairs, Bodahn stayed behind in his room. The kind soul was probably tidying up his room _. Maker, what’s he going to think of the soap in the fireplace?_

Hawke glanced up at the curtain obscuring the statue over the fireplace as he entered his library. He’d hidden it ever since Fenris expressed distaste for it—and the fact that the statue’s eyes followed a body around the room.

Quinn sat down at his writing desk and picked up a letter. They were almost all condolences—most of them insincere. At least half of them were from other noble families who hated the Amells or hated that a refugee Dog-Lord had joined their elite ranks in Hightown. He managed to fish out an older letter. His ‘business partner’ Hubert had been pressing the workers too hard, according to the correspondence from the foreman at the mine. Quinn sighed. Nothing good ever came of that wretched place. He already gave up a good portion of his own share of the profits back to the workers or else to replace equipment. Quinn started a letter to Hubert. He could usually beg off some leniency by offering a share of his share of the monthly profits to the other man. It was just a question of how much. Not that he was hurting for money these days. Even with fancy soaps, fine blades, fine food, and fine clothes, he really didn’t spend a lot of money from month to month. Bodahn and Orana, while well-compensated, were only two people, after all.

Quinn stared down at the parchment, not quite sure what he’d written there. It made about as much sense as the silly, alliterative sentences he would dream up for Fenris and Orana to practice. He pulled another clean sheet of parchment towards himself and started again. He felt a bit terrible that their lessons had been… interrupted. Again.

Quinn finished his letter to Hubert, signing his name at the bottom with a wavering hand. He added an extra flourish under his signature, making sure his hand was steady this time. He sealed it and pressed his seal into the wax, trying not to feel the stab in his heart as the Amell crest cooled and became solid. _I bet no one ever thought an apostate’s son would be the head of the Amell family._

Quinn set the letter to one side, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. Maybe they should have gone further up the coast or further inland all those years ago.

Hawke pulled a piece of parchment towards himself. He should probably work on writing down all the niceties about how touched he was by so-and-so’s condolences even though they didn’t make a bloody bit of difference. Quinn knew full well they were insincere and utterly devoid of any true pity—and without any inclination of the horror of what had happened. Maker’s _balls_ there were a _lot_ of them.

Hawke picked up the first one and frowned. It was his neighbor immediately across the way _. From what he’s written here, he makes it sound like my mother caught a severe case of pneumonia_. He shook his head in disgust. Apparently acknowledging her murder was too uncouth for their Hightown neighbors.

_Dear Messere Ahrenburg_ , he dipped the pen into the inkwell and let it go, watching the stylus bob on the surface of the ink for a moment. He sighed and drew it out, scraping the excess along the lip of the bottle. _Thank you for this kind regards in-_ Hawke hesitated, not sure whose time of grief he should specify. ‘Our’? ‘My’? He dropped the quill on the desk, staring at the parchment. He felt defeated by a single word. Quinn tilted his head and idly watched the ink pool off of his quill on to the wood of the table. He didn’t know what he expected. He’d nearly drowned it in the inkwell, after all. He picked it up and there were streaks left by the stem as well. He busied himself wiping off the desk. It had sat long enough it was sticky and tacky. Then he started straightening and organizing his desk, pulling out writing instruments and nib sharpeners and other odds and ends, only to push them around his desk and dump them back into drawers with a false sense of productivity. He heard the gentlest click of nails and he heard Ser Rascal rushing up to him, and he looked down and saw his hound’s head on his thigh.

Hawke tried to smile, “There you are, did you have a good walk with Sandal?” He stroked the hound behind the ears. “You’re a good mongrel, aren’t you Ser? Every bit as good as a full-blooded mabari, aren’t you?” Ser Rascal had come from a litter of pups he’d saved in his first year in Kirkwall. The last one he couldn’t find a home for, and the biggest handful of the lot. The seller had been a despicable criminal sort, the head of a dog-fighting ring. Before Quinn had put him out of business—at Athenril’s behest—he had tried to pass them off as full blooded mabari offspring. As pups it had been harder to tell, but they had been bred with something else. Possibly a coursing hound, judging by Rascal’s svelteness and longer snout. He was still smarter than most dogs—perhaps too smart sometimes, but Quinn loved the wretched beast anyway. Even when he made life miserable in Gamlen’s little hovel. Quinntus was certain there were still socks of his buried somewhere in that house.

Rascal looked up at him with big golden eyes and whined. “I know. I know… I’m sorry,” he brushed his thumbs along the dog’s cheeks. “I’m sorry,” Quinn whimpered, his voice failing for a moment. Rascal whined softly and pulled away. He padded up the stairs to the library adjacent to the space Quinn set up as his study. “Ser Rascal,” he said the hound’s name quietly, but the beast refused to listen. The stubborn hound was still searching the house for Leandra.

Bodahn cleared his throat at the doorway. Quinn turned around and looked at him. “Bodahn?”

“I think it’s... getting close to the time we should be leaving, Serah,” the man turned another letter over in his hands.

Quinn felt his shoulders go slack, “Already?” Hadn’t he just come down to the study?

“Well if we want to get there on time... it’s nearly midday,” Bodahn looked at him with concern. Sweet _Maker._ Had it really taken him the better part of an hour to answer a single letter? “Are you... ready, Quinntus?”

Quinn felt like he was moving through water as he stood up. _I’m not ready. I thought there would be more time_. He nodded, his head stuffed full of wool, “Of course. How is my make-up? Can’t show up to a social function with poor cosmetics you know. Those… Orlesian nobles love to gossip.” His voice sounded flat even to himself. Bodahn hesitated before holding out the letter.

“Another message for you. I think… I think it might be from your brother,” Bodahn held it out gingerly, as if he already regretted his words. “I don’t know if you wanted to read it now or… or wait.”

Quinn felt like he had been struck by an ogre. His hand was heavy as he reached out for the parchment. He took the missive. He turned it over in his hands several times. It was most assuredly his brother’s hand. Seeing his name in Carver’s penmanship felt like an accusation. ‘ _Why are you still here, and not her?’_

Quinn broke the seal and opened the letter. His heart stopped several times in his chest.

He could see where his brother had started the letter several times over, hesitant quill marks and stricken words littered the missive. He could barely make out Gamlen’s name and ‘letter’ and ‘mother’ as well as a few crossed out recriminations. At bottom of the letter were the only two clear words—

_What happened?_

Quinn tried to pull air into his lungs, a dull pain aching within his breast, and the parchment fluttered out of his grasp. The smell of the foundry was all around him, inescapable, sickening. He shook his head faintly, his entire body trembling hard. Hawke swallowed back some bile that was burning in his throat.

He had told Gamlen that night, the words coming out flat and hollow. He had told his uncle too much.

He couldn’t speak of it anymore. He could scarcely speak of her at all. His throat simply locked up, choked by an invisible hand.

He couldn’t tell Carver. He couldn’t. Not now. Possibly not ever.

Quinn looked down and realized he was clutching his chest. He let his shirt go and tried to smooth it back in place.

“I suppose we should... be leaving,” Quinntus hesitated. “Sandal… will he… be alright without you? He’s been… very upset.” Hawke wasn’t going to drag Orana or Sandal to this dreadful affair. Orana had seen too much death already, the death of her own father likely too near. He wasn’t sure Sandal would be alright seeing the funeral pyre and… everything that went with it.

Quinn wasn’t sure _he_ was going to be alright seeing it.

Bodahn rubbed his beard—now impeccably brushed and braided, “Let me go talk to him once more, Messere, and I’ll meet you at the door, how does that sound?”

Hawke nodded silently and made his way into the foyer and the entrance, still struck by the sensation that he was swimming.

He left Carver’s letter on the floor of the study.            

He leaned heavily against the wall, just next to the door, resting his brow on his forearm.

It wasn’t long before Hawke felt the gentle touch of Bodahn’s hand on his lower back. Quinn slowly stood up and looked down.

“Shall we?” Bodahn gestured towards the door.

It occurred to Quinntus that he hadn’t left the house since that night.

His palms felt sweaty at the thought of leaving his home, his sanctum. His heart was thundering in his chest again, but he pulled the door open—or tried to.

“Ah, I think the latch needs to be undone,” Bodahn said the words kindly and reached up to pull on the chain to unlatch the heavy door and open it up.

The sun was bright, and Quinn fought the urge to shield his eyes. He hadn’t seen sunlight in at least a full sevenday. He blinked fiercely as his eyes watered and he prayed that his kohl wouldn’t become streaked.

Hightown was as busy as ever, but he could hear people whispering. He could feel them staring, but no one stopped to greet him.

His skin suddenly tingled where he had smeared the dark pigment and he felt the urge to wipe it all off.

Instead, Quinn touched his braids, and made sure the feather was still there. He gritted his teeth from side to side and held his head up higher. Let them point and stare.

They all knew where he was going, even without his garb.


	2. ...and I will try hard not to scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the heavier/more disturbing of the two. All the quotes from the Chant and the related religious quotes are from in-game sources.

The midday sun was nearly at its zenith when Quinn arrived in the Chantry square. The light blazed brightly against the bronze statuary outside the massive building. _I wonder if someone has to polish those or if the ancient magisters used magic to prevent corrosion._ The two largest statues were blatantly Tevinter in origin. _They must be too big to melt down_ , Quinn thought. There was no other reason the Chantry would allow such blasphemous relics to remain otherwise. In the square proper, twin images of Maferath were on either side of the Chanter’s board—which was unusually empty.

Quinn swallowed as he looked at the yawning pit where the Chanter’s board usually stood. A metal panel had been pulled back to reveal a series of grates recessed beneath the symbol of the Sword of Mercy and the Maker’s sun. The spire of stone that usually held the Chanter’s board was, in fact, a cleverly concealed smokestack. Quinn could see wood deliberately arranged among the grates. Two of the Revered Mothers were placing some sort of blessing over the wood itself while they poured sacred oil over the timber.

Quinntus looked around the square again. It was lined with Templars. His eyes fell on the pyre again and a tiny whimper escaped him. He wanted to be anywhere but here.

“Hawke,” a familiar voice called to him softly. He heard Aveline before he felt her hand on his shoulder blade. Her hand was heavy and Hawke saw she was in her parade armor—and he knew Aveline detested such frivolous attire. (Though hers was by far the most sturdy and practical set of dress armor he'd ever seen.) He also noted that she had Ser Wesley’s shield with her, and Quinn did not think it was a coincidence she had brought a Templar’s shield. Not after what they had seen beneath the foundry.

“Aveline,” he finally said, after a little too long.

“You haven't seen anyone in days.  I stopped by the other day but… Bodahn said you wished to be alone. Hawke, I know… it’s... terrible, but I’m here.” She smoothed her hand up to his shoulder and squeezed, “You don't have to keep yourself locked up in that house, I'd be more than happy to make a quiet space for you in the Barracks.”

Quinntus laughed softly, and the sound seemed to surprise Aveline, “Want to keep an eye on me? Make sure I don’t get up to any mischief?”

Aveline looked at him with stern, but soft, gaze, “Quinn.”

Hawke shrugged out from her touch and smiled at her, and it frightened him how real it felt, “I’m fine Aveline. Really.”

He hated that his smile made her look sadder.

"No one expects you to be fine," she said, adopting a gentle tone, searching his face. Quinn felt a hollow pain in his chest, as if Aveline had exposed a wound with those words. His eyes darted away from hers, in case she saw too much—that there was more wrong with him than simple grief.

Aveline spoke again, her voice still soft, “I know we aren't related by blood, Hawke, but I still think of us as kin. I'll never forget that it was your mother who offered me a place here.” Her eyes were wet as she spoke again, “After Wesley she… she… We spoke of what it was like to lose a husband. Even though she was in so much pain over losing her daughter.”

“It took her years to recover from losing my father,” Quinn could relay this information without thinking of her directly. It was a bit of a mental exercise, thinking of his mother in the abstract, to keep the awful… visions from occurring, but it seemed to work. It was like reciting a bit of trivia, just… something he knew, as if he'd read it in a book.

“It must have been terrible, losing him like that. I understand he was sick for a long time. I suppose you could argue I was spared that horror with Wesley, as much as it hurts to say,” the guardswoman chewed her lip.

Quinn sighed but the sound of it was touched by a strained laugh, “Aveline, I know it’s customary to speak of the dead, but I'd rather not talk about my father today.”

Aveline tilted her head, but she shrugged, “All right, fine, though if I were being honest, I'd say that you hardly ever speak of him at all. I thought perhaps… today you might be remembering… others who have passed. I’m sorry.”

Quinn felt a stab of pain through his heart. Her words felt like an accusation. _You don't remember him. You have forgotten him._ An uncomfortable silence fell between them, and Aveline rested her hand on the hilt of her sword, “When you're feeling better, come by the Keep. We can talk when you're ready.”

There was the sound of more armor on the cobblestones; the Templars stood at attention, the sound of their metal boots echoed through the square. The hair on the back of Quinn’s finely braided neck stood on end. He turned around.

Knight-Commander Meredith had arrived, and the smile faded from Quinn’s face.

She walked up to him, her diadem gleaming in the sun, as blinding as the bronze statues.

Quinntus knew who she was. They had not spoken, but he was almost certain she knew _of_ him—he had a way of attracting attention. If nothing else, his involvement in Templar business had likely made her aware of his existence.

She studied his face silently for a moment before inclining her head. Quinn bit the inside of his lip, curbing the impulse to tell her he had prepared for a forbidden magic ritual. He was fairly certain she wouldn't be receptive to that sort of humor, and he didn't fancy spending a night locked up in the Gallows.

“You are to be commended, Serah Hawke,” Meredith said in her cool, clipped voice. It seemed too loud for such a solemn occasion but Quinn didn't have the nerve or the energy to ask her to change it. “You brought down a monster in our midst, despite your loss. Many would fail in such a task, even with their own survival on the line.” She looked at him and her expression softened, “I am truly sorry for what happened to you, Messere. It would not have happened, had we Templars done our duty, and for that I can only beg Andraste for forgiveness and offer you my deepest regrets.”

Quinn didn't know what to make of her apology. He bowed his head heavily, acknowledging her words.

Her tone was careful and light when she spoke again, “I heard there was another mage that night. One that escaped in all the confusion. The first suspect. Gascard du Puis.”

Quinn sucked in a sharp breath. _Gascard_. For a moment he felt hot, searing anger burn through his heart. He vividly remembered Gascard fleeing, turning tail and running as soon as it looked like his former mentor was going to fall. His hands tightened into fists and he clenched his jaw. His eyes twitched in their sockets as he looked at Meredith, and he saw now what she wanted _. She wants him. She wants to redeem her precious Templars_. And an unbidden thought followed after, _she wishes to rob me of my revenge_. Quinntus let out a ragged, shuddering breath, feeling achingly hollow and empty as the rage subsided. He felt so exhausted from mere moments of anger. “He’s probably run to ground in the Undercity,” Quinn was willing to admit at least that much to the Knight-Commander’s face.

Meredith clicked her tongue, “Fitting that refuse should flee to the sewers. Still, the Undercity is as vast as Kirkwall itself. Without more information, he may be able to hide for weeks, or even months.”

 _Not that long_ , Quinn thought viciously, surprised he was capable of such vehement thought. He blinked, for a moment… he thought he’d seen the Knight-Commander smile. Just a hint of one. A look of… victory.

Meredith inclined her head, “Forgive me, I need to make sure adequate preparations have been made for the Rite of Cleansing. I think more of your friends have arrived as well. I’m sure they wish to speak with you. I hope you find solace in the arms of Andraste’s compassion, Serah.” She nodded to him, and started pacing the perimeter, looking each Templar in the face, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword.

Quinn turned to look behind him. He saw a familiar blond ex-Warden wave at him, just outside the square, beyond the line of Templars. He made his way over and slipped between a gap between two of the armored figures to see his friend. Quinntus followed Anders back around the corner, a little further away from the large congregation of apostate-hunters.

“Anders, I didn't think you’d be here,” Quinn grasped Anders’s elbow and the apostate returned the gesture. Their meeting wasn't… incredibly suspicious. The Grand Cleric had sent him a letter, encouraging Quinntus to invite as few people as possible.

Anders squeezed his elbow, “Hawke, I wouldn't dream of not making an appearance. I… wish I could stay, but I wanted to see you. I think Merrill is on her way as well… if she doesn't get lost or side-tracked. I’m not sure how often she comes up to Hightown.” Anders gave Quinntus a small, tired smile.

“Your favorite person in the entire world is here, are you sure you don’t want to stay?”

Anders chuckled. He had a surprised expression on his face, but it was a bit more pleased and delighted than some of his other friends. The mage lifted his hand and placed his thumb just underneath the fresh cut on Quinn’s chin.

“What happened here?” Anders asked, brow furrowed in concern.

“You’d think the man had never seen a shaving accident before. Then again… look at those whiskers of yours.”

Anders shook his head with a chuckle, “Did you want me to take care of it?”

“Is that wise here?” Quinn looked over his shoulder at the vast number of Templars behind them.

“Mm, probably not. Still, I can take care of it later, if you want. It might leave a bit of a scar.” Those amber eyes turned serious, and Quinn suddenly knew he was being… assessed, “Quinn, is there anything I can do for you? As a healer? As your friend?”

Quinn lifted one corner of his mouth in a half-smile, “You showed up. That’s enough.” He felt his skin prickle with gooseflesh at Anders’s next words.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

Quinntus didn't have a clever answer to the question, couldn't think of a jest to deflect. His heart seemed to stop in his chest. _Is this concern or an accusation?_ All he could think about was how he could scarcely sleep, how he kept returning to the foundry, how he kept seeing and feeling—even smelling—things that weren't there. How his heart would race without warning, how he couldn't remember his own mother’s face, how he feared he was going mad. _Does he… know? Can everyone see that something is wrong with me?_

Hawke was relieved when Gamlen appeared. The man was shuffling along, just the slightest bit unsteady and reeking like a still.

"Oh _Maker_ ," Quinn whispered. He hadn't seen his uncle this drunk in a long time. "Looks like my uncle is here," he gestured to Gamlen, though the stench announced him readily enough. Hawke avoided the gaze of his uncle—and Gamlen seemed content to ignore him, shuffling past him with the most miserable air of despair Hawke had ever seen surrounding the man.

Anders let out a breath as Gamlen rounded the corner and disappeared into the Chantry square. "He looks terrible," the mage shook his head in sympathy. "Andraste alive, I hope he hasn't been drinking like that the whole week."

Quinn gave a half shrug, "I know he drinks too much as it is.”  His uncle _always_ needed money it seemed, and yet, he was always spending the coin his mother gave him at the Rose—and Quinn knew it was a generous stipend. Two sovereigns a sevenday would feed two refugee families in Darktown for a fortnight or more. Plus whatever extra he wheedled out of her for his latest ill-fated financial venture. For a brief moment Hawke wondered if Gamlen had accrued enough debt to sink two family fortunes into.

Quinn looked around again, “You ought to go, Anders. I’d hate for you to be recognized on my account.”

Anders nodded slowly, “All right, but you know where to find me if you need to talk or anything else.” Maker’s bleeding areshole, Quinntus was _sick_ of talk and offers to listen. He had told the story too many times already, to Gamlen, to the City Watch, to the Chantry, to the Templars, to Bodahn.

Quinn was _tired_ of saying the same things, and his throat no longer obeyed him when he tried to speak of his mother all.

He beamed at his friend anyway, “Of course, Anders. I’ll find you if I do.” He sealed this lie with a convincing smile.

Anders nodded, and he gave Quinn a look of longing, his eyes sliding past him towards the Chantry square, still lined with Templars. "Hawke... do you want me to wait at your home? I want to be here for you, and I don't want you to feel like I'm abandoning you," the mage gave him a concerned look.

Quinn shook his head, "I'm fine Anders. Really." He gave the other man a bit of a roguish smile. "I mean, you could stay here I suppose, but then I'd have to visit you in the Gallows from now on. That might be a step down even from the sewers," he gave a short bark of laughter at his own joke.

Anders rubbed the back of his neck, a little less amused, "Right... I don't really fancy that either. All right, Hawke. I'm just under your feet if you change your mind, don't forget that. As a healer or your friend or... whatever you need."

Quinn opened his mouth, but then he closed it again just as quickly. He'd nearly told Anders what he _needed_ was a good potion to prevent him from feeling anything at all, to keep him numb, but he didn't think that would be received well. He nodded instead, avoiding the healer's gaze.

“Thanks very much Anders, but I just want to get through this day,” Quinn said at last, his voice flat to his own ears.

“Fair enough,” the apostate reached over and gently squeezed the man’s shoulder. “Just promise me you won’t deal with it like your uncle. I don’t want you trying to drink yourself into an early grave.”

Quinn tipped his head up and smiled at Anders, giving the man’s wrist a squeeze, “You know I’d pass out well before that happens.” Even at the Hanged Man where Corff watered down the ale considerably, he could only handle about four or five tankards—on his best nights.

Anders chuckled softly in return, “Well you’re probably right about that. Oh, here’s another… guest.” There was a peculiar flatness to Anders’s tone as Fenris came into view.  Anders glanced back over at the Templars nervously and Hawke waved him away.

“You should go, Anders—and get something to eat, there’s a stall just across from Lirene’s now with some good food—very cheap too.”

“I’ll go check it out,” the apostate raised his hand in farewell, then Anders ducked around a corner and disappeared from sight as Fenris approached Hawke.

Andraste’s pyre, just _seeing_ the other man made the lump of stone residing inside his chest ache in protest as it tried to feel. His arms and chest were suddenly covered in gooseflesh. He remembered the night they’d shared vividly, and Hawke felt lonelier than ever. These days they danced around each other cautiously, hovering in each other’s orbit like the moons. Circling each other but never getting closer to what lay between them.

For a wild moment, Quinntus imagined Fenris sweeping him into a tight embrace and whispering soft words of reassurance. He imagined the elf whispering that they’d been foolish to be apart for so long and that, today of all days, Fenris realized now that his place was by Hawke’s side. It was selfish and far too optimistic to hope for.

Hawke wished it anyway.

“Fenris,” Quinn swallowed thickly, trying to rein in his imagination. “Thank you for coming and… visiting the other night,” he swallowed hard, trying not to think of _other_ things they had done in his bed. Maker, he just wanted to reach out and hold his lover’s hand— _were_ they still lovers? It was harder to say the longer they didn’t speak of it.

Fenris looked at him and for a moment Quinn couldn't tell if it was pity or longing he saw in those expansive, elven eyes. “Hawke… I am… here, as you requested,” he shifted in place, and Quinn felt his eyes drawn to that bright red favor around the elf’s wrist. The elf had started wearing it soon after their wonderful-yet-disastrous night together, and Quinn had yet to discover how the elf had found the tokens of affection he’d so carefully set aside. Metal-clad fingertips reached up to touch the red fabric, but Fenris offered no explanation as to its meaning. “I… your mother gave me these the night I… left,” he cleared his throat nervously. “She noticed I seemed… troubled, she asked me to wait and... brought these. She said you’d set them aside as a… gift for me,” Fenris shifted in place, his shoulders tense, chewing at the inside of his lip—a tiny betrayal of emotion he wouldn't have shown three years ago.

“I did,” Quinntus affirmed. “She… I imagine it was her way of… expressing approval,” he nearly choked over the words. _Is this over between us? Is there anything left to approve?_

Fenris cast his eyes down, his dark brows furrowed. The elf stepped forward, and Hawke shuddered, feeling a familiar charge of energy between them, and sparks danced in the pit of his stomach. He could feel Fenris’s breath against his neck, the elf slowly reached for Quinn’s hand, “Hawke, I—“

“Hawke!” Merrill’s voice was bright, and Quinn took several steps back from Fenris while his erstwhile lover did the same.

“I… I’ll meet you inside, Fenris, it’s fine,” Quinntus said to him with a feeble smile, though his legs felt weak and shaky. Fenris nodded, a slight flush coloring his tawny features. The sun gleamed off his blade as he turned, and Quinntus swallowed thickly. _Fenris was there that night… and he’s seen so much blood magic, does he know something I don’t?_

Merrill bounced on her toes a bit as she walked up to Quinn, arms open wide to give him a hug, but he flinched and she stopped short, “Oh... sorry, I probably should have asked first.”

“It’s… it’s fine I was just... a bit startled, Merrill,” Maker he was so easy to startle these days. He rubbed his sternum absently. His heart wasn't racing so much as vibrating uncomfortably in his chest.

“Oh, I see, I didn't mean to do that either,” her eyes widened and dipped low for a moment. “Hawke I’m so sorry about what happened. If there’s anything I can do..”

“Give up blood magic,” the words were stilted and they came out unbidden, before he knew what he was going to say.

“What…?” Merrill dropped her voice to a whisper, glancing nervously at the large gathering of Templars in the square. “Hawke, I don’t think we should be discussing this here.”

Quinn lowered his voice, brows twisted beneath his tattoos, “Why would you practice something even _capable_ of that?”

Merrill looked at him with those huge green eyes, hurt and indignation in her voice, still speaking under her breath, “You _can’t_ think I’m anything like Quentin or Gascard, I—“

“I say that because I _know_ you aren't like them, so why? Why would you… _want_ to have anything in common with them?” He was being an ass, and he knew it, but he _couldn’t_ understand it. Why anyone as good and sweet and kind-natured as Merrill would practice an art _capable_ of things so foul and profane?

“Magic is a tool, Hawke,” Merrill said the words in an undertone so that they wouldn't carry. “It isn't any more evil than a hammer or one of your lock picks.”

“There are limits to what those tools can do, Merrill,” Hawke shook his head. “A hammer cannot… there are things _no one_ should be able to do,” he crossed his arms, the corner of his mouth trembling slightly. In the corner of his vision, he thought he saw a spider crawl across the cobblestones and disappear into a seam in the masonry, but he couldn’t be sure. It had been so small and fleeting. Perhaps he’d simply imagined it. (Though one time he _thought_ he’d imagined a spider, it had turned out to be real, so he was less and less sure these days.)

Merrill sighed, “Perhaps we should talk about this another time Hawke. This isn’t the best place.” Quinn bit the inside of his lip. From Merrill, that was stern and cold. Another person might have simply just given him a rude gesture. “Ir abelas ne mamae din’an, Hawke. Ne numin sahlin, mahvir suledin him sulahn’nehn. Atisha’enansal su enasal, ma’falon.”

Her words were beautiful, but as usual, Quinntus didn't have the faintest clue what Merrill was saying. His working knowledge of elvish was basically nonexistent. Quinntus always got mixed up with all the repeating, rolling sounds whenever Merrill tried to teach him anything. Still, he presumed they were words of comfort and meant from the heart, “Thank you Merrill.”

She nodded at him, but he thought perhaps it was a bit curt, not as friendly as it might have been. _Hawke, why couldn’t you just keep your mouth shut?_ Quinn sighed, wishing he weren’t such an ogre. He watched Merrill leave, and when he returned to the square, Varric and Isabela were waiting for him, standing near Aveline. He noticed that Varric had Bianca with him, and Isabela had her daggers. He pretended not to notice.

Hawke walked up to them, smiling as if he were hosting a dinner party, “Varric, Isabela, so glad you could make it.” Varric glanced over at Aveline and Isabela, but neither of them returned the look.

“Wouldn’t be anywhere else today, Hawke,” Varric said after a moment. “Good to see you looking so…. Well.” The way Varric said ‘well’ sounded like a dire pronouncement. Isabela was toeing the ground, apparently deep in thought.

“Something on your mind, Isabela?” Quinntus asked politely.

“No, nothing, sweet-thing, just… trying to think of something to say that doesn’t sound utterly vapid and insincere. I mean, people say ‘sorry’ but does that change anything? It’s not like I’m the one who wronged you,” Isabela toyed with her lip piercing and she made an impatient sound, “Ah see? Balls, I knew I’d screw this up.”

Quinntus laughed softly, “Ah, it’s all right. You don’t have to say anything, honestly. I’m sure enough people have given me condolences by now, you can let one of them count for you.”

Isabela laughed, genuinely surprised but pleased, “Oh Hawke, you say the nicest things to me, even when you’re facing the worst.”

Quinn shrugged, “It’s the truth, really. I have an enormous stack of letters at the estate. I’ll just scratch someone else’s name out when I find a nice one, and put yours in.”

Isabela chuckled again, pressing her knuckles against her lips, “Please Hawke, you’re terrible.”

“Well, take a seat wherever you like,” Quinn gestured to either side of himself. There were a few benches set up in a semi-circle around the open pit. Gamlen was seated by himself on the end of one bench. Fenris was standing over by Bodahn, having a quiet conversation with the dwarf.

At the top of the steps to the Chantry, Quinn saw Sebastian making his way down to the square. He was in simple robes, instead of armor, white with gold stitching, a sunburst on his chest and flames at the sleeves. It was strange, seeing him in the garb of a brother instead of armor.

“Ah, excuse me, I should go speak with Sebastian,” he nodded towards the steps, and walked over to Sebastian. He could hear Varric mutter something to Isabela, but he only heard her whispered reply, and he knew it wasn't supposed to have reached his ears.

“If he wants to be normal, then let him be normal, Andraste’s ar—sake. Whatever he needs to get through today.”

Hawke felt a chill settle over him. He would have to do better, it seemed. They could still sense something wrong with him. He brushed his hands along his arms to try and dispel the gooseflesh that had appeared beneath his shirt.

Quinn met Sebastian halfway up the steps, “Are we... it’s nearly time, isn't it? I don’t see… I mean, there’s… are the preparations finished?”

“Peace, Hawke,” Sebastian lifted a hand in a beatific gesture, his voice low and soothing. “The Grand Cleric will be coming shortly once she finishes her prayers at the altar. We won’t leave anything here to chance, Quinn.”

Hawke shivered, his face drawn taut with worry. “Sebastian… what happens if something goes wrong with the Rite?”

Sebastian reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder, “The Templars will take care of it. Do not fear, Hawke. They’re just a precaution; I have yet to see the Rite of Cleansing fail. You will not be asked to do anything today, even if... the worst should happen. I can go get my bow, if it makes you feel more at ease, however.”

Quinn shook his head, “I’m sure your duties as a Brother are more important.” He tried to swallow, but his throat felt like it was coated with dust.

Sebastian met his gaze with those piercing blue eyes, “Hawke, I haven’t known you as long as the rest of our companions, and I know you show your devotion to the Maker rarely, but I would be remiss if I didn’t offer my services to you. If you have need, you may avail yourself of them at any time. If not me personally, anyone here at the Chantry would be glad to give you counsel and comfort. The Maker and Andraste can help you, if you wish to seek strength from them.”

“I... that’s not necessary, thank you,” Quinn swallowed nervously. He didn’t want to discuss his fears or concerns with anyone right now, particularly not anyone from the Chantry. Certainly not before the ceremony itself was over, voicing his fears would be inauspicious. And his mother needed the Maker and Andraste more than he did right now.

“I see you have a unique custom, is it Fereldan?”

“It is… my custom,” Quinn shifted in place. Was it Chasind? Avvar? Something unique to the Circle or somewhere else his father had traveled as an apostate? He didn't know, and he felt foolish for not knowing.

“I see,” Sebastian clasped his wrist where Andraste’s face usually sat. “I was merely curious. Even in the Free Marches, the traditions for mourning can be quite different between villages. In Starkhaven, things proceed quite differently than they do here in Kirkwall.”

“Ah,” Quinntus didn't ask him to elaborate. A soft chiming sound came from the top of the stairs. A sister in a white robe that matched Sebastian’s walked before the Grand Cleric, ringing a silver bell on every third stair.

“Ah, we must be ready to start soon. I think the Grand Cleric will have a moment to speak to you, if you wish it Hawke. I have always found Elthina’s words to be comforting. I will go speak with your uncle he looks—erm—troubled.”

Hawke chuckled softly, “That’s a diplomatic way of putting it.” Sebastian gave him a look as if he’d just uttered a vile sacrilege, and Quinntus had to bite his lip to keep himself from throwing his head back and laughing. Still, the prince-turned-brother went down the steps to sit with Gamlen.

Quinn felt a shiver run down his spine, and when he turned around, he saw the Grand Cleric standing beside him on the stair.

Elthina looked at Hawke, but if she thought his appearance odd, it never showed in her expression. There was only deep sorrow there, etched into the lines of her face, “Messere Hawke, it saddens me greatly to perform this service, when your mother had so many years left in her.”

Quinn couldn't think of anything to say, so he merely nodded. “I... thank you, Grand Cleric,” he swallowed thickly. She gestured for him to walk with her and he stood there awkwardly and then offered his arm to her. Elthina chuckled softly, but she took his arm and they walked down the steps together.

“I remember the day I dedicated your mother into the Chantry, and I remember the melancholy that fell upon your grandmother after she left Kirkwall.” Quinntus wanted to make a snide retort to that, but then, he hadn’t known his grandparents at all, and even Gamlen had conceded that they had forgiven Leandra, even missed her.

“At least… they might be reunited soon,” Quinn heard himself say the words distantly. Maker, he hoped that she would be able to see the rest of the family after this. He lowered his arm once they reached the bottom stair.

“The Maker declares opposition in all things, even though you may feel darkness and sorrow upon you now, know that it will not always be so. There will be joy and gladness in equal measure in your future. I do not know how much you value that Chant, Serah Hawke, but I have always found the Canticle of Trials to be particularly comforting in such times of grief. It reminds us that Andraste and those who came before us have also struggled, and we are never alone in our suffering,” Elthina clasped her hands together, disappearing into her white and gold sleeves. They were slightly different from Sebastian’s and the other Mothers. Elthina’s sleeves had flaming swords along the upper arm in gold and the sunburst on her chest was ever so slightly more ornate.

Quinn didn’t have the energy to refute her words, that he was alone with his own suffering—that it was trapped in his head, heart, and chest, and no one else could ever share it with him. He didn't _want_ anyone to see what was wrong with him. Hawke tried not to think of Kelder. _At least I’m not blaming things on demons that aren't there. Yet._  He still didn't find the thought comforting, not when he still had cause to doubt his senses, his sanity. Quinn realized that Elthina was still speaking to him and he focused his attention on her words, unsure of what she'd just said, “—I feel sure that our endeavors today shall be successful, Serah. Your mother will indeed rejoin her family soon.”

 _How nice to be so certain_ , Hawke thought faintly. “Are... Is everything… in order?”

“We are nearly ready to begin. The sun will be at its peak soon, with the power of the Maker’s fire, any lingering corruption will be cleansed,” Elthina sounded confident in her words. Quinn appreciated her demeanor, but he felt slightly less confident that any mortal rite could claim to have such an effect.

“I see, where... should I sit?”

“Wherever you wish Serah. I know this isn’t how many in this situation wish to say goodbye to their loved ones. If you wish it, we can hold a more conventional service at another time. I’m sure much of Hightown would be eager to attend such a gathering, your mother had many friends here.”

Quinn felt a bit ill at the prospect of another funeral. He certainly didn’t want to have another ceremony for his ‘peers’—most of whom weren’t bothered about his mother’s return to Kirkwall until she returned to Hightown.

“I… this will be enough, but thank you.”

Elthina looked at him in concern, “Are you certain? You do not have to make a decision right away. The Rite of Cleansing is not always an easy thing to bear witness to, and you must be in… extraordinary pain.”

Quinn attempted to wet his dry mouth and swallow. “I’m fine, really.” His palms were wet and prickling with sweat as a question pushed its way past his lips, “Grand Cleric… Have you ever seen the pyre… reject anyone?”

The Grand Cleric closed her eyes and shuddered before answering. Her large, sleeves creased where she gripped the fabric inside, “Yes… and it is always terrible when it does.”

Hawke wished that she had lied.

“Excuse me, I need to finish my preparations. Have faith in the Maker, Serah Hawke, a great injustice was perpetrated here but your mother was a victim of it, not the instigator. _Foul and corrupt are they who take the Maker’s gift and turn it against his children_. The maleficar is the one who risks Oblivion. The Maker is not so unjust that he would condemn your mother and those other women to walk the Fade for eternity.”

Hawke’s eyes were drawn down to the pyre. He wished he was so certain. There had been so much magic so… much of her removed and taken away, could anyone’s soul truly withstand that much foul magic and remain unchanged?

Was there any power strong enough to undo such a thing?

Even if the Maker _could_ do such a thing _—would he_? Of what use could an absent god truly be?

Without a word, Hawke went to go sit at one of the benches. It was in the center, and he had a good view down into the recess where the fire would be. Bodahn sat beside him, Aveline at his other elbow. Isabela and Varric sat on the same bench to the left.

He could hear the bells in the Keep tolling out midday, and the doors of the Chantry opened.

Six figures in white and gold robes, brothers and sisters of the Chantry, were at the top of the stairs. They carried their burden with great care, a body draped and covered in black fabric upon a plain litter.

Quinn felt his stomach lurch as they descended the staircase, and made their way to the pyre. The body was laid to rest atop the array of oiled wood and between a set of vertical metal plates.

Leandra almost looked like herself, under the black silk cloth.

She had been dressed in a gown that hid most of Quentin’s handiwork, but it didn’t matter. Quinntus knew. He knew that this wasn’t _only_ his mother. It was just pieces of her, pieces of other women stitched together like a monstrous quilt. Ninette, Alessa, Mharen, and Maker only knew who else. There had been so many bodies and limbs under the foundry. _How many women didn’t even make it to this pyre? How many failures were there?_ Quinntus felt his stomach clench and he tried not to retch aloud. _Leave them there. Under the foundry._

The sun beat down on his brow as Elthina said a prayer over the remains. The smell of oil was so thick now, he marveled that there weren’t any awful oil slicks on the white robes of any of the mothers or sisters.

“We gather here to cleanse any lingering corruption that… These innocents have suffered at the hands of a vicious maleficar. Maker, though you have seen justice dispensed in this earthly plane, we humbly beseech you not to abandon your children at their greatest hour of need.”

Quinntus bit his lip. He could hear Gamlen let out a broken sob. Surely their greatest hour of need had been before _dying,_ but he tried to keep his indignation in check. There were worse things than death, after all. He’d already seen that.

He wouldn’t condemn his mother to that a second time.

Meredith stood above the pit, a little ways behind Elthina, her armor shining in the sun. A soft breeze tickled the back of Quinn’s neck. The Grand Cleric slowly began to sing, her voice was surprisingly melodic for a woman her age, and for a moment, Quinntus found himself thinking of Sister Leliana in Lothering. She loved singing, and her voice was quite lovely. Elthina’s voice sounded like it would have been a similar quality in her prime.

_The Light shall lead her safely_

_Through the paths of this world, and into the next._

_For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water._

_As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,_

_She should see fire and go towards Light._

Sebastian stepped forward and passed Elthina a bowl that held dancing flames. The Grand Cleric held it aloft, and Quinntus held his breath. Finally, he saw what they were waiting for.

There was a sparkle of white light at the roof of the Chantry, and a white beam of light was focused down through some sort of lens, through the bronze sun that cast a short shadow over the pyre beneath. Elthina tipped the bowl and a bright white torch and burning oil landed on the wood. The Grand Cleric stepped back, as the flames started burning brightly, spreading across the wood, aided by the copious amounts of sacramental oil that had been used.

Elthina sang again, this time aided by Sebastian and the other Chantry members present.

_The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,_

_And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker_

_Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword._

Quinn shifted in his seat and looked around. Fenris was seated as far away from him as possible at the very end of the bench. At his left, he could hear the creak of leather as Aveline gripped the hilt of her sword. Hawke shifted again and sat on his hands, attempting to stay any nervous gestures. He was thankful they didn't have to sing as well—he wasn't sure he could even recite a single line of the Chant or the most basic liturgy at the moment.

Elthina continued to sing, from Trials this time. Or was it Transfigurations?  They were both quite popular Canticles for such… ceremonies. Quinn supposed he should know the Chant better than he did.  At least he could guess at which Canticle it came from.

_My Maker, know my heart_

_Take from me a life of sorrow_

_Lift me from a world of pain_

_Judge me worthy of Your endless pride_

Meredith stepped forward, and she too began to sing, her voice much… sweeter than Hawke had expected—though it was still not particularly dulcet. It was clear and strident, and frankly he was amazed that the Maker didn't turn his gaze to Thedas right then and there because Meredith Stannard was not an easy woman to ignore. Quinn shifted nervously in his seat, his eyes drawn back to the growing flames.

_My Creator, judge me whole:_

_Find me well within Your grace_

_Touch me with fire that I be cleansed_

_Tell me I have sung to Your approval_

The rest of the Templars joined in on the next verse, and Quinn felt a shudder run down his spine.

_O Maker, hear my cry:_

_Seat me by Your side in death_

_Make me one within Your glory_

_And let the world once more see Your favor_

They sang the words ‘O Maker, hear my cry’ again, but this time on the word ‘cry’ they let the last note linger, the sound of it passing from one Templar to the next, so that the sound of it seemed to spin around the courtyard, passing back and forth thrice, the flames on the pyre shifting in response to the song, flickering at the breath from the choir. Elthina sang the last lines alone to an eerie quiet.

_For You are the fire at the heart of the world_

_And comfort is only Yours to give._

Quinntus found himself impressed that she could sing next to such a large source of heat and smoke. His own face protested the warmth of it a bit, and he found himself wishing he had a bit of lotion to combat the dryness. He swallowed as the edge of the black silk started to smoke, then catch ablaze.

Quinntus wasn’t sure what verse Elthina sang from next was, but he was fairly certain it was from the Canticle of Trials again.

_Though all before me is shadow,_

_Yet shall the Maker be my guide._

_I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond._

_For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light_

_And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost._

The flames were high now, and the silk wrappings were nearly eaten through. Quinn swallowed thickly. He wondered if his mother’s soul had already been lost—like his family had been lost to him.

He heard less and less of the Chant as it was sung, and Hawke avoided looking at the body. He didn't want to watch it burn away. He stared at the wood instead, avoiding the unusual color of some of those flames at the top of the pyre. There were flickers of pink, red, and green among the rest of the fire. Hawke’s eyes were drawn by a few pops and soft combustions, a shower of sparks rushing up into the chimney above the corpse.

His hands shook as they gripped the bench, he looked around at the rest of the crowd, was it a demon..? Everyone else was... tense, yes, but the Templars and Meredith had not moved. Elthina and Sebastian were both singing, Sebastian’s voice low and lilting. Another plume of orange-pink fire flashed and Quinntus shuddered. He didn't want to know what any of it meant. He didn't want to think about what had been done to her, didn't want to be here.

If a demon came, perhaps it would be a mercy.

The waiting would be over.

 _That’s always the worst part isn't it? The waiting?_  Quinntus felt a chill run down his spine, suddenly remembering his father. He watched the blaze consume the wood, and even though it was his mother—more or less, perhaps more of _less_ —burning there; he remembered a different pyre, a different parent. All he could think about was the summer he turned fifteen and found himself without a father.

_Malcolm had been sick many times, but never quite as sick as this, there had been many false scares, times where they thought they were going to lose him but Malcolm had rallied. Not this time._

_This time, Malcolm only got sicker and sicker, weaker than he’d ever been in his life. They went through so many herbs that their garden wasn't enough, they had to buy more herbal supplies or beg them from the Chantry. Sometimes their neighbors would come by and offer more._

_He and the twins helped their mother mix them all together, embrium and heather to help his lungs, Malcolm softly teasing them once, when they forgot the prophet’s laurel. The herb he took most was spindleweed. Even before he’d fallen ill, Malcolm had taken it in his tea for years. “Keeps the nightmares away,” he had always taken a cup of tea before bed—he insisted that Bethany do the same._

_One morning Quinn realized their entire garden was nothing but spindleweed. Each day he’d wake up and pick at least twenty green leaves. Then he’d hang them up on a line to dry. When the plants turned red or purple, they were ready to mix. Sister Melia showed them how to make it into tinctures. The smell of it filled the house, and no matter how many times Quinn washed his hands, he could still taste it in his meals, bitter and acrid._

_Quinntus hated spindleweed._

_Malcolm became weaker and weaker, however. He ate less, and swallowing became difficult. He no longer left the bed, and Quinntus had to help his mother clean the man when he soiled the sheets or needed to be moved._

_Carver complained that it wasn’t fair. That only a month ago their father was feeling well enough practice swords with him._

_Bethany begged their father to heal himself, to teach her how to cure whatever ailed him._

_Quinntus wondered if he could have made a difference, if he were a mage._

_Malcolm seemed to know that this was the end, but he had been sick for so many years, he did not seem to mind the thought of this being the last convalescence._

_When Quinntus kissed his father’s brow, there was the barest taste of death on his lips._

_The worst part of Malcolm’s final days were the awful sounds of his father’s breathing and the deep racking coughs. His breath gurgled, wet and awful, and the coughing was worse, the sound of a broken body. It hurt Quinn to listen to the man work so hard to breathe._

_In addition to the tincture of spindleweed, they administered laudanum under Malcolm’s tongue at regular intervals._

_One day, the gurgling ceased, instead his breath wheezed and whistled like a broken bellows, losing air on every inhale. “He wants to speak with you,” his mother had said, and he went to sit at his father’s side._

_Malcolm reached for him weakly without seeing, Quinn held his hand gently, his own feeling so small, even though he was almost a man himself. “I’m here, dad.” Dad, not ‘father’ as if he were a child again. Quinn had to lean over and hold his ear above his father’s mouth to hear his feeble whispers._

_“I wan’… I want… You mus’… take care… family. Quinn’us. Promise me.”_

_“I will dad.”_

_“You have to… Carver… Bethy.. th’ twins..”_

_Quinn could scarcely see through his tears as he clutched his father’s hand, the skin there pale and veined, and already dying. _It reminded Quinntus of the stone steps of the Chantry._  The flesh under Malcolm's nails was utterly colorless. That hand which had still been strong and warm only a week before was cool to the touch, “Of course father… I’ll finish raising them.”_

_“Promise me, Quinn... you’re… in charge now, promise me you’ll take care…” Malcolm’s voice was almost inaudible._

_“I promise I’ll take care of the family, dad. You won’t have to worry. I’ll take care of everyone.” Quinn swallowed thickly._

_“Good, now go … get your mother,” he wheezed softly._

They were the last words he’d ever spoken to his son.

In a just world, Malcolm would have died there.

He wouldn't have lingered and withered even further.

They wouldn't have had to keep vigil for three long nights after that and wait for him to finally stop breathing, the sound of his shallow breaths filling the house. They wouldn't have had to watch him die slowly, piece by piece.

Quinn wouldn't have had to help his mother carry his body to the barn so they could make his pyre.

He wouldn't have had to hold his sister while she cried, because her magic wasn't good enough to heal this, because she couldn't even alleviate her father’s pain.

In a just world, the waiting would have been over, and Quinntus wouldn't have had to sit up in the middle of the night wondering why his promises to his father weren't good enough to allow the man to pass.

_In a just world I would have been at his side instead of in the garden_.

None of it would have happened in a just world.

_Father should have lived._

Malcolm would have taught Bethany more about magic—enough that together they would have had no fear of darkspawn. Malcolm would have gotten them all to Kirkwall, and then Leandra wouldn't have been so morose and prone to melancholy.

_She wouldn't have been lonely enough to accept those lilies._

Quinntus could see now that Malcolm’s death had been the start of a slow, terrible unraveling. Malcolm had been the thread that held them all together. Bethany was gone, Carver near as, and now.. and now…

Quinn sucked in a breath as a gust of wind swept through the courtyard—not an uncommon occurrence—but the black feather in his hair slipped from his braid and landed on the pyre. His body jerked, as if he to dive after it, but it was already curling into ash.

Quinn tried not to tremble. _What does this mean_? It felt… inauspicious to him, an ill omen. The pyre had not rejected the body, but what of her soul? There was no guarantee she was welcome at the Maker’s side. Was her spirit doomed to linger since the feather had been destroyed? Hawke clenched his hands tightly, feeling powerless.

Maybe it wasn't an omen at all.

Maybe it was _proof_ he had failed.

Proof that his visions and dreams were real—that his mother’s soul had been irreparably damaged.

Hawke suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe. That urge to scream was back stronger than ever. Pain clawed in his throat as he squeezed his arms around his waist, he bit the side of his tongue.

 _Perhaps… perhaps it’s all a coincidence_ , but the notion seemed feeble at best.

He stared down at his feet, unable to look at the flames anymore.

From a distance he heard Elthina utter more words from the Chant—and they felt so worthless and hollow.

“The deep dark before dawn's first light seems eternal, but know that the sun always rises.“

\--

It was over far sooner than he expected. By the time the fires were done, the sun had only wheeled a small distance in the sky, the shadows still quite short. With Hawke’s father, it had taken half a day, the fires continuing past sundown, and they’d needed to put more fuel on the fires, but then, that had been an open pyre—a peasant’s pyre. _Must have something to do with their elaborate set up, I suppose_. He got to his feet, a bit unsteadily, he could feel the weight of Aveline’s hand on his shoulder. She seemed… happy? Relieved, perhaps was a better word for it.

The Grand Cleric came over to him. He could tell that she was speaking to him, but he couldn’t quite hear what she was saying. It was as if his ears were underwater. Elthina repeated herself. _The Rite has been successful, serah Hawke. Did you want all the ashes, or shall we separate out a small portion for some of the other victims?_

Quinn gave a half shrug, and moved his head from side to side, not quite able to give the Grand Cleric his input.

_Serah Hawke?_

“Yes… Do that,” Quinntus heard himself say in a flat voice. He turned and started walking away, though he was vaguely aware that the Grand Cleric was still speaking.

His friends were there—he shrugged away from Aveline’s touch. There was too much noise. They were all so glad, so _relieved_ it had been successful. Didn’t they _know?_ Hadn’t they _seen?_ The Rite of Cleansing had been declared successful, but Hawke was more certain than ever that this had been a failure. Varric tried to speak with him. Quinn didn’t quite hear what the dwarf said. He didn’t want comfort, he didn’t want to talk about how he _felt_ or didn’t feel, and Varric was too good at spotting falsehoods to swallow any of Hawke’s lies. He waved him off, trying to remember how to put one foot in front of the other.

Quinn couldn't quite hear or see anything, not until he found himself face to face with— _Fenris._ He wasn’t sure if he’d sought the elf out, or if it was the other way around.

The Tevinter man was peering at him with deep concern, “Hawke? Are you… present?”

Quinn gave the elf a crooked smile and he looked around from side to side, “Well, I don’t seem to be anywhere else at the moment, so I suppose I’m here.”

Fenris wasn’t an easy man to fool, and his brows furrowed deeper, a line appearing between them, “Hawke…” Fenris hesitated, then brought his lyrium-lined hand up to gently cup Quinn’s cheek. Quinn let his eyes close for a moment, and he tipped his head into that gentle touch. When he opened his eyes, Fenris seemed much closer. The elf’s voice was low when he spoke again and the sound of it still sparked a bit of heat in the pit of his stomach, even now. “Quinntus… if there’s… anything I can do… _anything_ ,” Hawke’s eyes were drawn to Fenris’s teeth raking across his lip, Quinn felt himself doing the same in response. He thought... No, he _heard_ the unspoken offer there.

Quinn wanted to reach between them. Quinn thought he saw longing there, the same longing in his heart aching in the man’s face. For a moment… he thought Fenris might close the distance between them. He swallowed loudly, and tilted his head, his lips tingling with the memory of the elf’s fierce kisses, of the taste of that mouth. Fenris leaned forward, wavering on the spot, pulling back in tiny motions—like a man trying to pull against an invisible tide. It was a tense stalemate, and Quinntus was quite certain he could end it, if he wanted to. After all, Fenris cared for him still, if he _said_ he needed this, if he simply said his lover’s name… Quinn closed his eyes. He could see how it would unfold like a prophetic vision. Fenris would give in, indulge him, bring him back to the mansion, lie with him, gentle, intense, and obliterate every thought from his mind, and let him feel numb—and then… regret. Maybe even _more_ than regret, something far worse than that. Hawke wanted this, he wanted Fenris so badly his soul ached for it, but he knew he didn’t want to end it like this—in a moment of selfish need. That would only bring disaster and ruin whatever still lay between them.  There would be more distance than ever between them, if Hawke gave in to that urge. He could dissolve whatever remained of their friendship with a single, selfish act, and Quinn knew he needed that more than he needed an illusion of comfort.

Even though he wanted to cleave to Fenris with every fiber of his being Quinn turned his head away. “I’m fine. You... should come by the estate soon. We should continue your lessons. I think it would be good for you and Orana to compare your writing.”

“Hawke,” Fenris sighed and let his hand drop to his side.

“I feel terrible, I hope the two of you have continued your studies in the meantime,” Quinn adjusted his leather vambraces. Fenris sighed heavily, in a way that suggested he had not, in fact, been as studious as usual. Hawke heard the man grumble something under his breath— _Festis bei umo canaverum._

Quinn smiled a bit but it faded quickly. He looked over to his uncle a short distance away. They hadn’t spoken yet, perhaps they should? Was there anything that he could say to his mother’s brother to make amends for the terrible fate that had befallen her, in both this life and the next?

Gamlen stumbled over a flagstone and Quinn rushed over to him, though his eyes watered at the overwhelming aroma of liquor that was emitting from the man. “Gamlen! Are you all right?” He pulled the man up by his elbows and grumbled under his breath, “Maker’s breath, if you were going to show up plastered why bother showing up at all?”

“Shut yer face, I’m allowed a bit of drink!” Gamlen wrested his arm out of Quinn’s grip.

“It’s never ‘just a bit of drink’ with you, Gamlen.”

“If I want a brannigan now and then it’s no concern of yours,” his uncle slurred.

“Look at you! You're practically drenched in alcohol! I’m surprised you didn't catch fire back there.” He gestured with his head to indicate the pyre.

“My sister just _died_ , I don’t need you _lecturing_ me on my personal habits. A man’s entitled to his vices,” his uncle glared at him from the corner of his bloodshot eye.

Hawke sighed and he couldn't stop himself from chiding the man, “You've been _entitled_ your entire life, uncle Gamlen. That’s the _problem_. Your sense of _entitlement_ is why you lost everything.”

“ _This_ again—you _have_ the bleeding estate back, that’s already set to rights,” Gamlen sputtered defensively. “ _I’m entitled_!” He snarled the words viciously, “I _was_ entitled! I’m every bit as much their son as _she_ was their daughter!”

“ _Was_ being the operative word, uncle. I seem to recall your parent’s will saying something quite different from the story you told,” his voice went a little hard. Something like anger started to roil inside Hawke’s chest.

His uncle’s voice was dangerously quiet, “You’re calling me a thief, boy?”

Quinn curled his lip and the words fell from his lips before he could stop them, “You’ve always been a thief, Gamlen, even when I was living under your roof you couldn’t stop stealing from mother, from _me._ ”

Gamlen balled his fists, hissing at him. ”You should be _thanking_ me! You ungrateful cur. Without _me_ you would have died in the Gallows. Without _me_ you would have been living—“

“Where? In the estate? I should _thank_ you for lying to my mother? For _allowing_ us to live in your home while I worked off to pay off _your_ debts and _my_ bribes?”

“They could have tossed your lot into the Waking Sea like unwanted pups and no one would have cared. You _owe_ me! Everything you have, you owe it all to _me!_ ”

Quinn felt incensed, as if his uncle had struck him, but he laughed instead the sound of it bitter and thick. “Fine. Fine, I’ll entertain the notion. I _owe_ you, Gamlen. Why don’t you just tell me how much money you want? What do you want your allowance to be, uncle? I’ll take care of you.” His tone was patronizing, rather than fond.

 “I don’t need your charity,” Gamlen spat on the ground.

 Quinn threw his head back and laughed because it was the most painfully inaccurate statement he’d ever heard in his life. He rested a hand on one hip and shook his head pityingly at Gamlen, “Uncle, I’ve known refugees in Darktown who need less charity than you.”

Gamlen seethed at him, “Shut yer face, I do just fine.”

“Really? How much money do you owe right now, Gamlen? How much debt are you in right now?” Hawke waited patiently for an answer. “You don’t even know do you? I know, Gamlen, I’ve always known more about your own bloody finances than you.”

“No one asked for you to butt your enormous beak into my affairs you insufferable busybody!”

Hawke rolled his eyes; evidently talking to Gamlen had been a mistake. _Maybe I can get rid of him_. He managed to fish a few silvers out of a pocket and he held them out to his uncle, “Here, just go buy yourself another drink. That's what you want, isn't it?”

Gamlen whirled on him and swatted his wrist aside, the coins bouncing on the ground, “You think this is about the money!?”

Quinn took another step closer, his arms still crossed and his voice low and cold, “Say what you like, uncle, but you’ll take my money, you always have, ever since I set foot in this city. You can’t drink on pride and the family name alone can you?”

“A name you’re not fit to hold,” Gamlen slurred the words viciously. “What are you anyway? Who are you but some mongrel, mage-blooded, up-jumped Lord Dog who got his own mother killed?” Gamlen was right in his face, a belligerent finger prodding him in the shoulder and chest, “Should’ve stayed in fucking Ferelden with that fucking apostate.” Quinn dropped his jaw, glaring at Gamlen, too incensed by the dig at his father to speak. “Magic’s always cursed this family, now it’s taken Leandra too. This is _your_ fault! You let this happen!”

A righteous surge of anger overtook Quinn. He had taken the blame for Bethany, he had taken the blame for what happened to Carver, but he wouldn’t take the blame for this—not from Gamlen.

Not this man.

Not the man who sold him into servitude, the man who had drank and pissed away more comfort and fortune Hawke could have imagined growing up with in Lothering, the man who had lied to his mother about her parents hating her for running away with father.

Even though he _knew_ he was to blame, he couldn’t bear to hear it from this man.

Not when he was certain his mother’s soul had been lost.

Every negative emotion he’d been pushing down erupted forth and he put his hands on Gamlen’s shoulders and shoved him back a few steps, out of his face. Hawke dimly heard Aveline shouting in the background. He felt a hand close around his arm and he knew without looking that it belonged to Fenris.

“Why do you _care_? Don’t you dare to pretend to care now, after all this time! You didn’t care when she was alive, why should you care now that she’s dead!” He was shouting. Hawke could see the hurt on his uncle’s face, but he couldn’t stop himself from bellowing at the man, “You never wrote back to her once while she was alive, not _once_.”

“That isn’t—you don’t even—how dare you!?” Gamlen spluttered.

“Oh right, my mistake, you wrote to tell her my grandparents had died. You let her go my entire life thinking her parents hated her!”

 

Aveline grabbed Gamlen by the shoulders. “That’s enough from the both of you!” She insisted, turning her head from Gamlen’s whiskey breath.

But it wasn’t enough.

“Maybe if you hadn't stolen her birthright she’d have come back to Kirkwall before the Blight took everything from her!” Quinn was shaking with rage, even as Fenris gripped his arm tightly. “Maybe she’d still be alive,” as soon as the words left his mouth Quinn felt a fierce sense of satisfaction as Gamlen’s eyes widened, even though he knew it made no sense.

“She never had to _leave_ in the first place! She could have stayed and married the Comte! She could have.. She could have stayed here,” Gamlen’s voice turned brittle. “She could have let me help her for once.”

“Gamlen,” Hawke felt moved to pity his uncle, for a brief instant.

His uncle snapped his head up to glare at him, and continued to bay drunkenly at him, “Why didn’t you _help_ her!? _Where were you doing?_ What did your help get her? Your _help_ landed my sister on the pyre!” Quinntus sucked in a breath, and his uncle might as well have stabbed him in the chest.

Quinntus clenched his fists, “ _Shut up_ you miserable little cockalorum--”

“That’s enough,” Meredith’s stentorian voice sliced through the air like her blade. “There are more constructive uses for your anger. Disperse yourselves, this business is concluded.”

A tense silence followed, but Aveline slowly let Gamlen go and the man cast his eyes down at his feet.

Bodahn approached him cautiously, “Come now Messere Hawke, you didn’t mean any of that, now. Let’s go home.”

“Hawke,” Quinn barely heard Fenris’s voice in his ear.

Quinn pulled himself out of Fenris’s hold, “ _Don’t_.” _Don’t follow me._ He pushed past his uncle, jaw tightly clenched. He couldn’t be here anymore. He couldn’t stay here. Someone shouted after him, was it Bodahn? Varric? Aveline? _Bethany?_ He wasn’t certain who it was, he just needed to _leave._

His legs carried him across Hightown, why was it so dark? He looked up once he reached his destination, and for a moment, his home looked like the foundry. Quinn opened the door and shut it behind him. Maker, he could smell that wretched, awful stench again, worse than Lothering burning down.

Hawke took in a shaky breath and pushed off the door, going forward. The click of nails and thudding of paws announced Ser Rascal. “Get away from me!” Hawke didn’t even feel bad when he heard the dog whine. He went into the foyer, and cried out in alarm. There was his mother’s portrait, ghastly and as profane as ever. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean... I tried… I tried to save you…_ He turned his head and blindly made his way to the library, jumping back in alarm. The portrait of Aristide Amell looked down on him, but all he could see was the _thing_ Quentin had made his mother into. Dull filmy eyes looked down on Quinntus, even though he knew they should be bright green and shaped just like his. He could hear whispers, and that thick smell of death, smelted metal, brine, and rust was choking him. He felt his stomach lurch, and he heaved, nearly throwing up.

His chest hurt, everything hurt, breathing hurt, his fingers ached down to his very bones. “I... I’m sorry,” he whispered, sliding away from the terrible gaze of the woman he couldn’t save. Quinntus pressed the heel of his palm against his ear. This... could not be happening. Perhaps it was some foul magic... but it couldn’t have been real... this pain, it couldn’t have been real _. Is this madness or magic?_ As he staggered through the halls, portraits stared down at him, and every one of them looked the same—pleading, accusing, empty, _dead_. He felt like he might vomit at any moment, his body hot and sweating. The hallway seemed impossibly long and the only thing Quinntus knew was that he needed to go _down_ , down and under.

“Orana!” He stumbled through the hall blindly, avoiding the filmy eyes of his mother even though somewhere in his bones he knew that was the portrait of a distant relation he’d never met. “Orana!” He bellowed her name, slightly panicked, not sure if the walls were closing in on him or if it was his imagination.

He heard Orana’s bare feet whispering along the floor. He heard her gasp softly, “Master Hawke? Is something the matter?”

Hawke leaned against the wall heavily, staring at the floor, his whole body shaking as if he were about _to fall apart at the seams_.

“Orana,” there was still a desperate, almost angry edge to his voice even though he wasn’t shouting anymore. “I need you… you to listen carefully to me. Take down every portrait of every Amell in this house. Take them all down. Put them away, I-I don’t want to see them anymore, understand? Have Sandal help you, and… Bodahn. I’m... I’m going down to the cellar to make room for them. Don’t let anyone come down there, understand? Not even Ser Rascal. Not even Fenris, no one.”

“Y-yes… of course Master Hawke.”

Quinntus felt a muscle spasm in his jaw but he couldn’t even correct her. He staggered past her, heading towards the cellar door.

He froze at Orana’s next question, “Master Hawke… you will come back… won’t you?” Quinn shored himself up against the wall, still staring resolutely at the floor.

“Yes,” he barely managed to whisper. Hawke moved again, shambling forward, using both hands to open the way to the cellar. He pulled the door shut behind him with such force that the hinges squeaked in protest.

He rushed down the stairs, just as he had rushed beneath the foundry, but it didn’t matter. He was still too late. He was always _too late_.

Quinntus’s hands closed around the hilts of an old set of daggers and he flung them against the wall with a scream. _Why wasn’t it enough? Why am I never enough!?_ Shaking hands grabbed an ancient stool that had started to mold and he threw it against the wall, where it broke into pieces. There was a noise in his ears that drowned out the memory of Quentin’s voice. A moment later he realized it was his own screaming. It had finally broken free of his chest. Hawke turned and kicked a half-empty crate, his boot going through the wood. He pulled one of the daggers from his boot and stabbed it through a flimsy wardrobe. The dagger from his other boot was buried in a wine cask, alcohol slowly bleeding to the floor. He shuddered as he threw anything that came within reach, his eyes burning and his vision clouding. ” _Fuck that pismire Gamlen anyway!_ ” Crash. “ _Fuck this fucking city!_ ” Clay shattered against the wall. “ _Fuck this fucking, fucking piss hole_ ” He threw something heavy and metal where he thought he saw a spider, “ _Fuck every fucking thing. Fuck it all, fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK!_ ” He ran out of things to throw so he threw his vambraces next, pulling them off and breaking the laces on one of them. He sank down to his knees, fingers fisting in his hair as he cursed himself loudest of all, his eyes hurt, and he realized it was because his kohl was bleeding into his eyes with his tears. He sobbed, loud and ugly and alone, screaming out his agony. Quinn curled in on his side and he shook with silent tears after that, scarcely able to breathe. He wasn’t sure how long he lay like that, hours or minutes—but perhaps it wasn’t long at all, because when his tears slowed and the racking of his shoulders ceased, he was still out of breath. He trembled lightly as he pulled his fingers from his hair.

Quinn panted raggedly, looking down to see he was clutching one of the black feathers in his fingers. He couldn’t see anything else to hold onto in his life. There was nothing to hold onto except… Except… _There is a more constructive use for your anger._ Of all people, of everything that had been said to him today, of all the words of comfort from those he knew best… He thought of Meredith instead. _Fitting that refuse should flee to the sewers. Still, the Undercity is as vast as Kirkwall itself. Without more information, he may be able to hide for weeks, or even months._ Hawke sucked in a sharp breath.

_Not weeks._

Not if he could help it. Gascard would pay for his part in all this, for his deception and betrayal.

Hawke laughed thickly—why not? His entire life was a joke, why not also his mother’s death?

“I may have moved up in the world, Gascard, but you’ll be sorry to find I still have friends in low places,” he laughed again to himself and got to his feet, scrubbing the kohl and his charcoal-stained tears from his face.

Tonight he’d write a few more letters, already composing the first in his head:

_Dear Tomwise—How would you like to earn an obscene amount of money for keeping your eyes and ears open for me?_

_There’s someone I need to find._

\--FIN--

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [For the Dying of the Day [Fanmix]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3963328) by [ItsADrizzit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/pseuds/ItsADrizzit)




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